


Paper Flowers

by fireboltflame



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempted Murder, Deviates From Canon, Extremely Dubious Consent, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Cheating, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Mutual Pining, Open Marriage, Oral Sex, Poor Aaron Burr, Poor Alexander Hamilton, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 63,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25350235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireboltflame/pseuds/fireboltflame
Summary: Alexander Hamilton falls in love with George Washington. Things get complicated.
Relationships: Aaron Burr/Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr/John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Comments: 30
Kudos: 90





	1. Paper Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings may change in future chapters. Graphic sex, but only in a few scenes. 
> 
> Also trying to do subtle (and not so subtle) references to other musicals.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the beginning wheeeeeeeee
> 
> Also some references to other musicals spread out.

Alexander Hamilton has lived his life thus far with abandon. 

He runs buck wild with his youth.

Scathing in his letters.

Un-reined in debates.

But love?

Oh, he knows nothing of love. 

Books can’t capture what he feels. Thousands of pages and nothing comes close to the tightening in his chest when his mind conjures up an image of his heart’s desire.

Alexander Hamilton’s fingers strangle the bouquet of flowers he had painstakingly made that morning. Paper flowers.

It was winter, after all.

\-------

_Valley Forge December 1777_

\--------

“The response.” The General lip curls as he slams the parchment to the writing desk.

Hamilton stands to attention. The General was no longer even looking at him, much less thinking of setting the aide-de-camp at ease. Hamilton relaxes slowly.

He grabs the paper.

“They promised - -” 

“Words. Only words. They will try?! They will vote?! My men will starve!” Washington spats. His strong features crumple in rage. He draws a hand over his bald skull.

After a long pause, Hamilton hesitates to venture “Sir, shall we cut rations again?” 

“Cut the crumbs? Split the slivers of jerky? Half even the hardtack?” 

General Washington enjoys speaking in “threes,” Hamilton notices, when he is upset. And quite alliterative “threes” at that.

“Sir, I will write to Henry Laurens. Get John to join me in writing. They can’t let us starve. The - the revolution won’t starve so long as we have our dedication to liberty and freedoms, sir.” Hamilton straightens his shoulders.

The General’s face cracks into a rare smile, “Sure.”

“And our loyalty to you, sir.”

“Then, Alex, those men may starve yet.” 

The conversation dies there.

Hamilton writes like a man on a mission. The weak winter sunshine falls away from the camp some hours later. Neither man notices.

\-----

After Mrs. Angelica Church - bringing a basket of candied fruit and preserved root vegetables from her father’s ample storages for their dinner - shooed him away from his small desk, Hamilton stares at the ceiling of his small bedroom.

The paper flowers are hidden under his bed. Maybe he will give them today. But it was so sad outside. Talk of mutiny in the air. Cries from frostbite toes being torn off in the medic tent. War injuries earned without battle. 

Hamilton’s stomach churns thinking of the poor soldiers laying hungry and cold in the rundown camp not even a 1/4 mile from his cozy little room. A chunk of bread and lump of soft cheese half forgotten on the table. Hamilton _almost_ wouldn’t eat it but for fear of the General’s wife, Mrs. Washington, finding that he was wasting good food. (Not that anyone would throw the treasures away.)

The paper flowers. He had spent nearly a month figuring out how to make the damn things. Spent near two months pay on paper. Paper that could be put to better use for the Revolution. 

_“Ahh, mais l'amour peut être une révolution, mon ami.”_ Lafayette’s words stuck with him. After a night of hard drinking six months ago. But love sounded so much more hopeful in French.

Paper flowers for the most beautiful man in the world. 

Yes, a man. A red-blooded, testosterone-filled, model of a man who, without a war, would not give Hamilton - bastard orphan that he was - a second thought.

Maybe the paper flowers would find better use in the fire.

At least his French friend would be here by the end of the week. Maybe he had more specific advice on how to win a revolution on love.

\-------

“Mon ami!!” Lafayette’s voice sings through the small house that serves as headquarters.

Hamilton jumps up from his writing desk and runs to his friend. Hugging Lafayette furiously around the neck, he cries, “Monsieur Lafayette!”

“My Hamilton, sweetest dear, I have longed for your company and bright spirit!” Lafayette sticks to English, despite knowing Hamilton was fluent in French through his work in trading. Mrs. Washington, with pretty young Kitty Livingston pretending to help, is sewing shirts in the front room and it would be rude to speak in a foreign tongue in front of the womenfolk.

Hamilton puts an arm around Lafayette’s shoulders, “The General is in meetings this morning. Let us speak in my room.” 

Lafayette raises his arms, dramatically, “And leave the company of the best of wives and women in our revolution? No!” Ducking from under Hamilton’s arms and gesturing widely, he makes pleasantries (and flatteries) to the women in the front room.

Hamilton wishes he had that grace. To make the world fall in love with him based on a smile. But Alexander Hamilton is awkward in a gangly, stiff way. The Frenchman is all sharp edges that exude charm and warmth. Maybe Lafayette will stay long enough to teach Hamilton how to kiss a hand well enough to make someone blush pink as Kitty Livingston.

Mrs. Washington’s laugh tinkles through the room like a little bell. She flatters in turn, matching the Frenchman in her compliments and wit. Before long, she shoos the men away to “talk business, leave a poor woman to her sewing!”

Once they make it to Hamilton’s little room, the charm turns full force onto the aide-de-camp.

“You’ve made yourself indispensable to the cause, my friend.”

Hamilton sighs, “So indispensable that I have cursed myself, I suppose.”

Another eyebrow cocks comically high on his forehead. “ _Une telle malédiction_. What a curse! _Mon dieu_ , you are very stupid for one so learned.” He dramatically places the back of his hand on his forehead.

Lafayette is very attractive himself. Smooth chocolate eyes, wild black curls barely held by his hair tie. Despite being on the battlefield many times over, he exudes a sophistication that belies the violence he had known. But the Frenchman is a demon with a gun and worse with a bayonet. Murderous on the dance floor as well (in a less bloody, more seductive fashion).

The other immigrant sighs, “I fear I am more foolish than you believe, my friend. I am in love.” he admits.

“ _Mon dieu.”_ Lafayette breathes out slowly, his tongue lolling the words. “Congratulations, my dear friend.”

“I’m afraid you misunderstand me, sir. I am in love with a man.”

Hamilton waits for the cannonball to hit its mark, shattering himself and his world to pieces. 

It apparently misses the mark.

Lafayette cocks his eyebrow once more. Would sweet Hamilton never stop amusing him! “I perhaps misunderstood but my answer does not change. _Félicitations_ , my friend.”

Hamilton breathes out a puff of frustration. “No. I am in love with a man. Forbidden, sinful, very _bad_ love.” He draws out each word like Lafayette is the simpleton he certainly is not.

A shrug. “Love is love is love.” And that seems to be it. 

There’s war to discuss, after all.

\------

The whole house knows about the paper flowers.

Not because Hamilton had grown the balls he needed to give them. Laurens, likely with the best intentions, had revealed it at dinner. In front of everyone. It was a dinner with the aide-de-camps, a few generals, and what consisted of the entirety of Hamilton’s adopted family.

Later Laurens would admit that he thought Hamilton meant them for Eliza Schuyler, a proper and meek girl who was staying nearby with an aunt and also present at the small dinner party. 

But Burr knew. They met eyes and Burr knew. Burr knew Hamilton’s whole heart and could read his mind. Had known Hamilton the longest of all those at the table.

Burr knew.

Hamilton sputtered. He saved himself by producing a folded copy of the letter he planned to send to Henry Laurens, president of the continental congress. He barked out excerpts, distracting the others from his embarrassment and becoming more excited by each line. 

He ignored Burr’s stares.

But that also meant he was unaware of the General’s gaze. 

_″I am now convinced beyond a doubt that unless some great and capital change suddenly takes place in that line this army must inevitably be reduced to one or other of these three things. - Starve - dissolve - or disperse, in order to obtain subsistence in the best manner they can. rest assured, Sir, this is not an exaggerated picture, and that I have abundant reason to support what I say.”_

\------

Washington watches his starry-eyed aide-de-camp as he loudly recites the letter. Washington often wondered if he should not do more to diminish the bright passion Hamilton had for the Revolution. But the General did not have the heart to ground the salt of reality into the wounds of war. 

There had been more in those eyes today. A determination that seemed….unfocused. Or, at least, not focused enough on the letter he should have been composing. 

If Hamilton wanted stars, Washington would let him lay under an ignorant starry sky. So long as the correspondences went out by morning.

\-----

Burr comes up behind Hamilton in the hallway later that night and grabs his hand suggestively, a warm squeeze to his palm promising more. Promises like this were dangerous. Hamilton throws him off as he huffs away. 

“Your new beau doesn’t know about us.” It wasn’t a question.

“There is nothing to know.” Hamilton hisses back at his former lover, who certainly knew far too much.

“Don’t you think that we should discuss --?” 

Hamilton interrupts, “It was three months ago.” He opens his door.

Burr grabs Hamilton’s shoulder and swings him around. “He certainly doesn’t act like he’s with _you._ ” Something simmers under that infliction. 

“We’re taking it slow.” Under that was the unsaid, _as we did not_.

Burr caught what was unspoken. “And if he rejects you, where will you go? Continue to serve him?” His voice cracks unwillingly. _Will you come back to me??_

Hamilton, despite himself, softens. “Burr, sir, I am honored to have known you so intimately. But I am told soldiers often do fall prey to such intimacies - such as you and me. I apologize, sir, if my meanings were mistaken. I took intimacies I should not have taken.” 

Burr is attractive, with a dashing smile and debonair polish. His voice was like honey. Words drip slowly and sweetly and stay stuck in your mind. “Oh, the intimacies were given freely, sir.” Another broad smile, a bow and he is gone.

\----

George Washington found a bouquet of paper flowers on his desk the next morning.

\------

Again, the cannonball doesn’t crash into his life. The General greets him off-hand, as usual. Dictates letters, as usual.

Except there are the flowers, sitting on the shelf out in the open. 

Unacknowledged but for Hamilton’s furtive glances.

Washington either does not notice or does not care.

\------

Until that night. 

Hamilton takes dinner at his writing desk, as he sometimes does when a particular idea takes him far away from the house. Mrs. Washington forces him to gulp down two chunks of bread soaked in gravy before she gives him back his pen.

Muttering, he draws an ink-splattered hand across his brow. Freedom is fleeting, slipping through our grasps. No, it is an echo, found after the voices of democracy have screamed into the face of tyranny and overpowered the chanting of the oppressors.

The founders of the revolution are tired of these metaphors. Maybe Thomas Jefferson can keep the rhetoric up in France; Hamilton should be putting his pen to practicalities instead. Soldiers are starving outside while he waxes philosophically. Why, why is he not putting every ounce of the energy he gets from the food generously set on the General’s table to protect the men far away from the hearth at headquarters.

A shadow falls over Hamilton’s small desk.

\------

Washington bends Hamilton over the his large desk with force, even though Hamilton is _so_ willing. He bites into his aide-de-camp’s neck and bucks his hips into Hamilton’s backside. 

“Tell me to stop.” Washington demands wildly. But his words don't match his tone. Hamilton doesn't know what to do, except to press backwards and moan loudly.

The General grabs at his aide-de-camp’s pants and, with some difficulty, yanks them to his knees. Washington is not experienced in anal sex; he had been happily married to a woman who followed him with the war. He never before had had the desire to bed a fellow soldier. But he knows enough that lubrication is needed. 

Washington shoves his hand to Hamilton’s chin. 

“Spit.”

“Sir?”

“Spit. Now. That’s an order.”

Hamilton summons up all the saliva he could and spits into Washington’s palm.

The first finger _hurts_. Badly. Washington did not know how to go slow, just shoves it in there and actually _bends_ it. 

What the actual f--- 

Hamilton gasps into the table as another finger joins the first. Okay, so this is not exactly pleasant. The spit has already run dry. Washington’s fingers are demanding and press hard inside him. 

But Hamilton does not know how to say no to this.

Just the thought of Washington overpowering his small frame is enticing. Hamilton wants to give himself away. He wants to be helpless. For the General to save him from himself.

Washington is so strong and rough. 

And Hamilton does not want gentleness. 

The friction in his ass feels...fine, after a while. Not pleasant. But no longer a firebrand. 

The General already is sweating bullets. Hamilton starts moving against the fingers, relaxing his muscles to take more in. His white shirt clings to his body. If Washington admits it to himself, he would say he was nervous to begin _the act_. He might burst the moment his pants hit the ground. 

Hamilton, surprisingly, makes the call, “I need you, sir….please, sir.” 

And that was that.

Washington’s pants hit the ground fast. The first slide in is tight, forced even. Hamilton whimpers when holding back the cry that threatens to spill out. Easy. Breathe. In. Out. Breathe. In. Out.

Sweat pours down their bodies now. Hamilton’s hair clings to his neck. He meets Washington’s lips in a messy kiss, the General’s height serving as an advantage as he twists himself around Hamilton’s slight frame. 

If Hamilton was a romantic, which he opts to say he is not, he would mourn the fact that their first kiss is so tainted by _the act_. Washington certainly had no time for sweet kisses and gentleness. And, well, Hamilton is okay with that. For now.

The muscles in Washington’s thighs tighten with his oncoming release. Hamilton had taken himself in hand early in the coupling; his hand now moving fast as Washington’s thrusts became short and jagged. 

The General comes first, with Hamilton following. As usual.

\-----

Hamilton slides to the floor, heart still beating wildly. 

Something grows in the air, something unpleasant and awkward. 

Washington paces, his buckle undone and his shirt still drenched in sweat. He mumbles, grunts, rubs his head like it could start on fire at any moment.

His boots pound on the wood floor.

“Sir?” The aide-de-camp manages to choke out. He wants to be held now. Other partners had been insistent on cuddling in the post-coitus glow. Before, he had been annoyed by that. Now, he might embarrass himself and beg for it.

The General stops at the sound. He clears his throat. “Ehm. You’re free to leave, Alexander. Thank you for, uh, ehm...I mean...you’re free to leave.” With a curt nod of his head, he leaves the room.

Hamilton is left lying half-naked on the floor.

\----

He chooses not to get up the next morning. He lies in bed. The house begins its day. Servants preparing the morning spread. Generals loudly greeting each other in the foyer. Lesser known soldiers ( _the spies on the inside_ ) sneaking through the backdoor near the kitchens immediately below him, barely scratching out a sound before disappearing again.

The General does not call for him. 

Alexander’s body hurts. His ass aches with a burning rawness that clearly indicates more lubrication was needed the evening prior.

The General does not call for him.

The door is still locked from the night before, when Alexander’s heartbroken soul deadbolted the room from the inside. Some time around noon, Lafayette knocks. Begs for Alexander to come share a thought on a letter he is composing to a Vicomte de Chagny . An hour later, Laurens asks if he is alright. Martha Washington follows soon after, softly asks if he needs any lemon leaf tea to ease his ills.

Oh gawd, he had not thought of Mrs. Washington. She had mothered him. Coddled him. How had he forgotten the woman whose presence filled the house with sunshine and hope? He had just gone on and seduced her husband. That was his repayment. Without a thought to her, who deserved all the respect in the world. 

His stomach heaves up bile and he swallows hard. 

He fucked her _husband_. While she lay in their marriage bed waiting for her husband’s return. She had given the General all her life and love. Alexander gave a few folded pieces of paper and thought he deserved more than the _fuck_ he had gotten. And had been wondering what more he could have done so the General would stay after the cum had dried between his legs. 

He feels the shame rise in him.

\------

Later that evening, another knock - no, a pattern of knocks. Their pattern.

Hamilton unbolts and opens the door mechanically.

The figure slips in, puts an arm around his shoulders and lays him stomach down on the bed.

Pulls down his pants.

Rubs a cooling salve on his aching entrance.

“What were you thinking, Alex?” Burr chides softly. 

Hamilton snorts into the pillow, “Obviously not far enough ahead to put some oil in my pocket.” 

He starts to cry. For the first time in many years. Alexander Hamilton begins to cry.

After the salve has coated enough of Hamilton’s aching muscle to soothe, Burr crawls up next to him on the bed.

Burr’s grasp is strong throughout these great gulping sobs. He stills smells of salt and cinnamon and whiskey, just like their first night together. 

Hamilton cries even harder. 

Burr kisses his warm brow.

“Alex, what the devil did you think would happen?”

“You mean, why not you?” The words have no bite to them.

Burr strokes Hamilton’s head and lays another kiss to the temple, “No. Truly, why him? He is above us all, and spoken for besides. You can’t hold a man like Washington. Obviously. _Mrs._ Washington can’t hold a man like Washington. He’s dedicated to the Revolution if only for his own vanity.” No judgment. A simple recitation of the facts.

The storm inside Hamilton subsides.

“Love, I suppose.”

“Love?”

“Or something like it.”

“You sweet fool.”

That seems to be it for a time. They lay side by side for a few hours. Burr stroking down his body, his touch is just the right amount of comfort without crossing the line to sexual. Another coat of salve is applied (by Hamilton this time) and there is still no embarrassment. Maybe after knowing each so passionately in the past had drowned any shame that this moment might bring.

Burr can’t help a chuckle. “You, of all people, Alexander.” He scoffs with affection. “You’re so smart. Didn’t think you could catch a little springtime fever with your work in the way. But then, your cock has led you into some troubles.” He barks out a laugh. “Remember when that girl threw an apple right at your --”

Hamilton cut in, “This is not a springtime fever. I feel…” He trails off. He doesn’t know what he feels. And he’s beginning to realize that lying abed with Burr is not helping him figure his feelings out.

Burr rolls gracefully from the bed and stretches. He appraises the mess of a man that is Alexander Hamilton. 

“Oh, Alex. Can’t you see? It doesn’t matter what you feel. The General will want you back at your desk tomorrow, I suppose. Fix your heart, pick up your pen, stay away from his bed. That’s some free advice that I can offer you, sir.” 

A bow and he is gone.

\-----

Down the hall, George Washington throws four paper flowers into the fire. 

One he keeps under his bed, with his sword, for safekeeping. 


	2. Paper Contracts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha confronts George

“Colonel Hamilton took ill this morning.” 

Martha Washington observes lightly from her chair where she composes a letter to her son, Jacky. The boy, her only surviving child, had been fighting in the war as well. Every letter she breathes in another prayer.

 _Stay alive_.

Washington sits at his big desk - yes, _that_ desk - and grunts. He has a stack of letters to get through. Correspondences need to be sent out before the messenger, just back from the last batch, sets out the next morning. A coded letter lay from Hercules Mulligan in by far the worst handwriting the General had seen during this war yet.

And he had seen the written pleas of tortured prisoners of war.

“He was abed the whole day with a terrible ailment. Would not tell any what it was. Only let Colonel Burr tend to him. Ignored my offers.”

“Shall I send my good wishes down the hall?” He grimaces at a particularly scathing retort from General Schuyler, currently exiled to his home under suspicions of treason, to take mind of his daughters’ virtue. His oldest, the _married_ Angelica Church turned so many heads his men were sure to suffer from whiplash. The other, Elizabeth Schuyler, had already been dallying with young Monroe and the dashing Tildon. 

Was he now a nanny as well as general?

Martha’s hands clasp firmly on his shoulders, “Husband. Do not think me an idiot. What the bloody hell did you do?” She rarely cursed or even spoke when they were alone. Their marriage stood on years of mutual understanding and respect. (Usually) they didn’t need words.

Tonight they did.

Washington tenses.

“George, I already have an idea. The _whole house_ has an idea.” She has the decency to grimace at that. “These wooden walls are thin, dear.”

No.

Oh, no.

Her hands leave his shoulders. 

“He was...unwilling?”

Washington’s body turns with great force. He grabs her hands and pulls her to him. But he can’t bring himself to stand, to use his height to bring force into his words as he often does when he is in a mood to convince.

“No, no, no, of course not! I would not! Martha, you know. I would never!” He begs her to see that the coupling had been consensual. That he did not steal favors from his soldiers. That he was not the type of general he had grown to hate in his many years of service.

She gave him a tired smile, “Seeing Alexander make cow eyes at you this winter, I believe you, Husband.”

For the first time in their marriage, he wishes she would stop calling him that.

He whispers, “Curse me then. Scream at me, Martha. I am unfaithful. I betrayed you in the most disgusting manner possible. My own aide-de-camp. Twenty five years my junior. A man.” He drops her hands to put his head into his own. Shame that has been growing throughout the day now overwhelms him.

It comes over him like a wave. Or the muggy heat that covers Mount Vernon’s fields before a storm. He wants to jump into a cold bath and scrub his skin raw. He wants to go onto the battlefield and reclaim his honor through the deaths of others.

But Martha simply sighs. “No. I will not be mad at this inevitable. What good does that do? George, I know who I married. I know you like I know my own mind. I’ve _known_ this - well not _this_ \- but your _leanings_ for some years now. Since our marriage day, if you want the truth.”

A brief pause. A deep breath.

“And I dreaded this moment. The moment when you knew yourself. When a pretty soldier boy finally seduced your good manners from you.”

Another pause. Her voice thickens with tears.

“You were a good husband. You _are_ a good husband. And a good father to Jacky and...oh my sweet Patsy, rest her soul. You are a good general, despite yourself. Such a good friend, too. My dearest friend. And I wanted to just keep holding onto you. Even when intimacy left our bed. Even when the heat left our kisses.”

She walks to the window.

“It’s funny. If our wealth had been less, if you were a simple soldier in the tents and I a seamstress for the army, we could have parted with no difficulty. But it keeps us together, doesn’t it? The money. The land. If not for greed, then for the scandal dividing them would cost us. The friends we would lose.” 

Bitterness fills her voice.

“Now only a piece of paper keeps our marriage, George. I love you, I always will. I will always be your friend. But the marriage...it's just paper.”

Washington finds his voice again, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I am not mad. Not even surprised. I am disappointed in you.”

His head bows again.

“For how you treated that boy. George, he is little more than a child. He is a little wild, to be sure, but still a boy.” She frowns, the lines of her face turning downwards in concern, “I think you’ve broken his heart.”

An anger rises in him then. _His heart?_ “I should have thought I would break yours, _wife_. But I see I’ve lost it some years ago.”

“Don’t change the subject, George. You know you have my heart. I know I have at least a part of yours. We are discussing Alexander now.”

“I made a mistake.” He feels that shame rise again. He had lain awake all last night and was too exhausted for this fight.

Martha deadpans, “Then fix it. Tomorrow. I’ll be going to do rounds in the camps. Bring them some shirts, some of the Schuyler’s gifts to those in most need. Fix it, George. That's an order from _your_ commander.”


	3. Contentment

Aaron Burr waits for this particular mess Hamilton has made to fall onto his own head. He knew _ _knew_ _ that getting involved too much would wreak havoc on his well laid plans of army advancement. Helping the General’s cast-off one-night-stand would do little to help his position in Washington’s army.

But what was Burr supposed to do after hearing the grunting, the rhythmic slamming of the desk, and then the loud silence that followed Alexander’s retreat into his room? 

He had tried to warn Alexander, truly. If the General was not blatantly, obviously interested in a love affair, why the hell would Alex push the issue? But the kid is just too cute to ignore and is _relentless_. God, he even got the General (who, let’s be honest here, is kind of a coldhearted bastard) to drop his guard for a even a quick fuck.

Frankly, that’s impressive. 

Not that Alexander seems to recognize that.

Burr knows Alexander. Knows how quickly he is drawn into passion. Doesn’t properly, ehem, _prepare_ for things. It’s only a matter of time before he truly hurts himself. And the Officer feels some guilt. He should have done more to emphasize the _importance_ of foreplay in addition to its pleasures. 

Burr feels sudden guilt that he might not have been best first lover to Alexander, who is still so very young.

(Being a year older, Burr is _so_ much more experienced, after all.)

And it’s not like Burr actually wants Alexander back in his cot. Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens has been keeping him plenty company, having been serving - sometimes literally - under Laurens for the past month or so. 

He just can’t bear to see Alexander walk headfirst into danger. If Alexander needs a playmate, Burr is sure that Laurens would not object - probably would even offer himself up to the cause. But Alexander denied his pretty blatant offer in the hallway the other night. ‘

Burr had not been able to save Alexander. Just one more disaster Burr could add to his generous supply.

\---

 _“That was...woooah_ .” _Alexander breathed into the darkness of the tent. The chill Autumn air began cooling the sweat on his skin and he shivered. Burr rolled onto his slight frame and pressed his whole body against him as their lips meet._

_Burr breathed into Alexander’s mouth, “You did alright.” And kissed him til the morning light._

\---

For his part, Hamilton washes his face the next morning. He brushes the wrinkles out of his best white shirt. 

He stares into the little mirror he keeps on his dressing table. Smoothing his goatee, plucking a stray eyebrow, he smiles. It feels strained and probably is.

“Today is going to be a good day.” He tells his reflection. “And here’s why: because today, at least, you’re _you_. And...that’s enough.” 

His reflection looks doubtful.

Well, fuck his reflection. 

From Burr’s visit last night, and his bringing the salve, Alexander has a feeling the _incident_ is not exactly private. He suppresses a sneaking thought that the whole army now knows Alexander Hamilton is light in his boots. 

Then he reminds himself that many of the soldiers don’t have boots this winter so probably could care less about an obscure aide-de-camp’s sexuality. 

But the house knows; that much is true. The walls of Headquarters can’t keep out the most basic noises of the soldiers living and visiting there. Swiving in the dead of night is just being stupid.

Hamilton is embarrassed that he had not anticipated what would happen _after_ he gave the General the flowers. He does not know the General well, he realizes. He only just came onto his military staff this winter! Hamilton must have seemed like a common army whore, leaving his feelings on the table like that.

No - besides pretending ignorance - Washington’s only reaction would be to act on Hamilton’s offer for a night of comfort.

Another sneaking thought pops in, _what will you do when he rejects you?_ Burr’s question. He had not truly pondered it. He hadn’t been rejected though. His offer was more than taken up. And it was Hamilton who played the heartbroken child the next day. The General is under no obligation to correct Hamilton’s misunderstandings or heal his wounds. 

The General had simply gone back to work.

As Alexander should have done.

His stomach grumbles angrily. He also had not eaten since barricading himself in his room yesterday. _Be brave, man, be brave._

He stepped into the hallway.

\---

The first to greet him is John Laurens, his dearest pen pal and friend. The Lieutenant General puts a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder, looks into his face and nods.

“You’ll survive.”

Hamilton, shocked, barks out a laugh. 

It cuts the tension in the slowly building crowd around them.

Next is Lafayette, who is a bit less blunt but reeks of apologetic intentions, _“Mon ami,_ I should have asked-”

“It’s fine.” Hamilton cuts in rudely. But Lafayette gets it; he takes no offense. Instead he puts an arm around Hamilton and declares loudly that he himself sees Hamilton as the most attractive soldier in Washington’s Army - with the finest ass in America.

Hamilton’s entire face turns red with his blush. He doesn’t reprimand his French friend. 

Lafayette means well.

Next, to his complete surprise and utter dread, is Mrs. Washington, embracing him, “I’m glad you are doing better, Colonel Hamilton. You let me know if the General is hard on you. I’ll set him straight.” She promises and puts her hand lovingly on one cheek. A warm kiss is pressed to the other cheek. Then she heads down the stairs with a heaving basket of goods. 

The other women, who had followed Mrs. Washington into the cramped hallway, follow her back out. Eliza Schuyler gives a glance back, lingering at the foot of the stairs - as if she would say something. But the moment passes and she disappears in a swish of blue skirts.

Lafayette breaks the silence:

“ _Wow_.”

\---

After choking down a leftover cold rasher of ham, a few biscuits, and downing a cup of awful coffee, Hamilton heads back to work. Washington’s office looks foreign to Hamilton, even after the hours he has spent in it.

He picks up his pen on automatic and starts writing a response to Thomas Jefferson.

The General’s boot steps precede him. Hamilton is at attention before he enters the room.

Washington shuts the door. 

“At ease, Colonel. Sit down.” A long pause. “Alexander, are you alright?”

Hamilton looks back down at the paper. A bit heartbroken. His bottom hurts where he sits on the seat. Mostly the heart though. And wounded pride. Words swim in front of his eyes through the sudden spring of tears. _Breathe. In. Out. Breathe. in. Out._

His voice is heavy, “Yes, sir. Thank you for asking, sir.” He defaults to servility with the General. It’s a tick he picked up during his work with the trading charter. _Yes, sir. No, sir. Right away, sir._

The General sits down at his own desk but does not take his eyes off his aide-de-camp. “I should not have taken advantage of you the other night. I am sor-”

“Sir, would you like me to work on the response to France or to the merchants today?” Hamilton interrupts suddenly. The only thing worse than being ignored is an apology indicating regret it ever happened. That _they_ ever happened.

Washington plows on, with sternness, “I am speaking, Alexander. Listen. That’s an order.” He softens, “You need to hear this. I have been married for twenty years.” 

Okay, awkward start to this conversation.

“I thought I knew myself. I have been faithful for twenty years. Yet you have made me question my own self. Martha - Mrs. Washington - is okay...” He seems leaves that thought there. “But I need time. To understand myself. I know that you are more...in tune with your own desires.” 

Hamilton looks back down to his papers.

“But I, apparently, am not.” The General rubs a hand on his bald head, “I need time to understand what happened.”

“You want me to wait for you?” Hamilton is hopeful. He is only now grasping that Washington is not ignoring the _incident_. And Mrs. Washington is okay….with this? Or has just recovered from the betrayal and is just _okay_. Hamilton has so many questions but manages he sticks to just the one. 

“I-I don’t know. No, I do not expect you to wait for me. You are _young_ and _virile_. Never wait for anyone, Alex.” 

“Sir, but what if it is _my_ decision to wait? I am willing to wait for it.” Hamilton stands suddenly, “I can help you, sir, to understand these feelings. It was not easy when I found them this last year but it helped to have...a friend. Let me help you, please, sir.”

He takes a step towards to the General. “Let me help you.” For only the second time in the General's presence, he lets desire purposefully fill his expression.

Let it not be said that Hamilton does not take an opportunity when it presents itself.

Washington smiles, friendly but measured, “This is a duel, not a battle, son. I need to do this alone.”

Hamilton is clever though, too clever for George Washington at times. “You’ll need a second, when there’s reckoning to be reckoned, if I may be bold, sir.”

It breaks the tension.

The General booms out a laugh and slaps his knee. “That’s the spirit I wanted to get on my staff, Hamilton. If it comes to blows, you’ll be my lieutenant, I promise.” Then he becomes serious. “I would want you to be.”

Hamilton blushes.

And that is enough. 

For now.

\---

Alexander Hamilton is ambitious. 

Alexander Hamilton is also clever. More clever than anyone else in the army, thank you so very much.

But he is also an obnoxious, arrogant, loud-mouthed bother. 

So he doesn’t calculate his next moves very cleverly. Ambition consumes him. For advancement. For love. And it all hangs on the General. To have it all placed clearly in front of him everyday is intoxicating. Drowns out his better judgment.

“I said no.”

“Sir, the distance would even help you understand what hap - “

“I. Said. No. Alexander.” 

"It may even help our relationship, sir!"

"ALEXANDER!"

\---

He has been careful around Hamilton these last six months. Not a word out of place. He purposely puts distance between them even when they are alone in his office. Martha accompanies him to that year’s winter’s ball.

No one could accuse him of any more improprieties. 

No one does.

Except Hamilton is not doing the same. He doesn’t give Washington the time he begged for. 

The young lieutenant colonel writes letters. 

“ _To My Dearest, General Washington…._ ”

“... _If you could hear my heartbeats, like drums on a battlefield, you would know of my continued passion for our shared interest….”_

_“....525,600 minutes in a year; Oh! How do you measure a year! When even a quarter hour in your presence spins the minutes. If you knew the temptation I have to spend my small savings to acquire a pocket watch, you would know how I am unconvinced that time even moves when you leave the room....”_

_“....I am unworthy of you. Yet unworthy though I am, I strive for your attention. To stand at attention for you once more. To put you at ease, once more....”_

The letters don't seem to be working though. Nearly a hundred letters. At least one per day, usually more. Hamilton burns through his small weekly pay on paper and ink. 

The General grows more distant. Consumed with talk of war, battle strategy, and, always, the fear of spies within their midst.

So Hamilton writes more letters.

Letters are left on his desk, in his coat pockets, tucked in his horse's reins, or simply left on his pillow, clear for his wife to see.

\---

And she does.

When George refuses to open them, she reads each of them aloud. He can’t bear to hide even one from her. He just hands over the latest letter and sits in a chair as she reads.

“My goodness, but he is very sweet.” She grins, “A little blunt at that "attention" bit but I suppose you have both been “at ease” together already, if we are using Colonel Hamilton’s phrasing.” 

The General has the good sense to stay silent in his seat.

She smooths her skirts as she stands. With purpose, she walks past her stone-faced husband as she deposits the latest letter into the overflowing wooden box she has set away for them.

Martha Washington is the model of a high society woman. Her powdered hair is never out of place. Her dresses are the latest fashion. This newest drama with Hamilton, instead of breaking her heart, restores her. Oh, how she missed the gossip of high society!

“He is trying to seduce you, you know. Properly.”

“Martha, please. Have pity on me.” Washington puts his fingers to his chin. “I am in the middle of a war. A war we are losing. There are enough admirers’ letters that you don’t read or save. Don’t tease me with his.”

He ignores the fact that he literally hand delivers only Hamilton’s letters to her.

Martha laughs, “I can get my own pleasures out of this, dear husband. You certainly could be getting more if you stopped being such a cold fish.” Oh, she is having fun now.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, you do, dear. Don’t play the idiot, it doesn’t become you.”

\---

Hamilton asks for a command.

He hadn’t before _the incident_ , since he had only just been invited to join Washington’s military staff earlier that December. Now seems as good a time as any. Maybe better. Six months of service on the military staff under his belt. His friends have scattered to the winds with their own advancement. Even Burr, stuck in the mud as he is, is now the highest ranking officer under Laurens’s command.

Hamilton is sure Burr is serving under Laurens in other ways as well.

So it seems like a good time. Far enough detached from _the incident_ that it won't look like a blackmail. The General is all but ignoring his efforts to grow their weak start into a relationship. It’s obvious the General would rather not have Hamilton in his presence, maybe regretting hiring Hamilton at all.

So he asks for a command. Mentions that the distance would help Washington “understand what happened.” Notes the strained nature of their relationship as is.

In front of a very embarrassed Lafayette and Colonel Monroe.

“Meet me upstairs. Not another word here. That’s an order.”

\---

Washington does not set Hamilton at ease upstairs. In either meaning of the phrase. He circles Hamilton like a wolf preparing the kill.

“I have been patient with you. You’ve gone too far here. Do you think this is a game? That war is a set of numbers on paper that you add and take away? You look to shame my decisions in front of Lieutenant Colonel Lafayette. You make me seem weak in front of our foreign allies _and_ our Southern allies in Colonel Monroe.”

Hamilton keeps his face composed despite his growing rage, “I was not questioning any decision you made. I was not asking for favors, either. Just the command that I have worked for and deserve.”

“No.”

“If you gave me a command I could rise above my station after the war!” He cries out finally. 

“Or you could die!”

“I am more than willing to die!”

“This army needs you alive!”

“To prove myself to _you_!"

“I need you alive!”

It can be debated who kissed who first. Hamilton, who had broken attention and come chest to chest with the General, as he leaned up towards Washington’s face? Or Washington, who bent his head at that same moment, desperate in the fight to tower over his opponent?

They came apart.

Then fit back together.

Hamilton’s arms tangled themselves around Washington’s neck. Washington thread his fingers through long, black locks of hair. Their lips moved slowly, with deliberation. Sucking then licking, nipping then soothing. Months of desperate wanting. All those sleepless nights of pure pining. Finally, led up to this.

It, admittedly, went on for a while. 

Long enough for Lafayette come up to make sure they had not stabbed one another after the shouting had ended. 

“Wow.” He breathed before slipping back out.

Neither noticed.

Washington pulled away, “Don’t you leave me. My god, promise you won’t leave me. I’ll do anything for you. Just not that.” He begged, putting their foreheads together.

When Hamilton said he was willing to die, it broke something in Washington. Thinking of Alexander’s lifeless form on a battlefield, blood soaked through his shirt, that intelligent brain splattered on the ground….he couldn’t handle it. It broke his resolve to be the model of a modern Major General. To be above wartime dalliances.

Hamilton is his war. Who he wants to win the war for and come home to. It’s only a mockery of fate that Hamilton is fighting too. If Hamilton is to be on a battlefield, let it be with Washington. He’ll protect Hamilton. He’ll win the war for Hamilton.

“Sir--”

“George, please, call me George.”

Hamilton grinned, “Fine, _George_. If you want me, will have me, I want to be with you. But I can’t take whatever we’ve been these months. My heart can’t take that, sir.” He laid his heart out bare, “When you invited me to join your staff after Kip’s Bay, I did not have these intentions. Honestly. But seeing you, everyday, all day, even in the first week of being here, sir, it's too much...I...I think I could love you, sir. If I let myself.”

There. Washington could take it or leave it.

"Let yourself, oh Alex, let yourself love me."


	4. Right Hand Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get together
> 
> Warning: minor sex scene (no anal sex) at the end of the chapter
> 
> I'm also really bored of the "paper" titles. I have a couple more, but I'd rather save them for chapters that they better fit.
> 
> EDIT: I renamed this chapter for the third time. I still am not impressed with it.

Martha Washington, who seems to be the only one who actually understands what is happening in front of everyone’s faces, announces her intention to return to Mount Vernon within the week, now that the weather is so nice. Someone needs to oversee the state of their lands, especially since her husband is _so_ busy….with the war, _bless him_. To be escorted by the brave General Schuyler with his sweet daughter, Eliza as her travel companion.

The meaning of her decision is not lost on the men.

Or anyone else in the house.

Except Charles Lee.

Lee, recently released from British troops through a well negotiated prisoner exchange, comes to Valley Forge that same day. Washington promotes him to the position of Lieutenant General. Hamilton will continue writing Washington’s correspondences, managing the military ledgers, being the secretary.

And he’s content.

For the very first time in his life.

He’s so content.

He knows it that evening. 

No, he does not go to Washington’s bed. Maybe Burr is on to something there. They waited this long. They could wait another night. To be alone, to take things slow. He could wait for it.

Oh! He finally has Washington’s attention. The General stares openly at him during dinner, barely eating himself. Every swallow. Each breath. Every sip from his cup. Washington is watching from the other side of the table. It’s shameful, indecent...it’s intoxicating.

Lee seems unsettled but says nothing.

Martha and George Washington lead the dinner guests to the door, then the houseguests upstairs. Martha shows Lee to one of the guest rooms. Lee politely wishes them a good night, thanking her for her kind hospitality. After his door clicks shut, Martha gives Hamilton what could only be described as a bawdy wink. She leaves them in the hallway, alone.

Hamilton shuffles his feet.

Washington rubs the back of his neck.

“Tomorrow?” Hamilton asks.

Washington let a long breath out like he had been holding it in all night. “Yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow.”

He puts a large hand on the small of Hamilton’s back and pulls him in. With the other hand he directs Hamilton’s chin upward. 

Their lips meet in a long, sweet kiss.

\----

Tomorrow brings a long, painful meeting between George Washington and Charles Lee, the new Second in Command. 

Hamilton scribbles notes in the corner of the room.

Lee makes accusations, talks over Washington. Washington, for his part, seems to just be repeating the same order: “advance.”

“That surely can’t be your whole strategy, Commander!” Lee exclaims.

“It surely isn’t, but that’s as much as it as you need to know, General. You’ll get more when we decide the next attack.”

“Where will that be? When? Sir, you must see that you must actually give orders to lead this army.”

Washington stone faces him, “I do give orders. When I need the orders to be carried out. No sooner, no later. You’re free to go, Lee. Lead your men. My orders will arrive.” 

Lee makes a sound of disgust and bows.

Once he has left, Hamilton clears his throat, “Sir? If I may?”

“Yes?” Washington sounds tired of the day already.

“I don’t trust Lee.”

“The other officers do. He got caught in the middle of the coup to replace me. I either give him a command or he takes mine from me.”

He rarely spoke so plainly. Hamilton, of course, knew this all already but was nonetheless shocked to hear it said from Washington's lip.

“You don't think he is the traitor, sir?” 

Secrets are getting out. They didn’t know through who. Someone in the higher ranks. Either careless or malicious with the information. 

“No no. He’s been in a British prison and not well kept at that. But to lead is to give a little, you’ll learn that, when you lead.”

Hamilton laughs, “When I lead, sir?” He cocks an eyebrow. Even though he is ambitious, and that he had tried recently to get a position to do just that, he can’t imagine himself leading right now. He is following, following George Washington to the edge of the world and over.

“Yes, when you lead.” He winks.

Hamilton’s smile shines brightly.

\---

The next few days are filled with quick stolen kisses and longing glances. 

But they also stay eerily normal. 

Washington continues to lock himself away in meetings, with Hamilton either taking notes or being sent on some other task.

Hamilton continues to head to his own bedroom at night.

These nights, though, he smiles in his sleep.

The General is sweet and subtle in his courting (because what else are they doing but a watered down version of courting?). He brushes his hand across Hamilton’s back as he writes. Lays a soft kiss on his lips before retiring for the night. Winks at him at the dinner table.

It’s nice.

\-----

But then Martha Washington leaves.

Hamilton helps load up the surprising amount of trunks and bags into the wagon. Washington speaks with General Schuyler, some tidbit about a British Troop moving South instead of West. Hamilton is left alone with Mrs. Washington for a brief moment.

He stays silent.

She speaks.

“Alexander,” Her voice is low and he cranes his neck to hear her, “take care of him. I would not leave him early if I did not trust you to do so. If I did not know that he needed me to go now. If you feel you cannot, or would not, write to me before you go. Don’t leave him alone, _please_.”

“Ma’am, I will. I...thank you. I am sorry, ma'am.” He wants to tell her how happy he is. How much in love he is. But even he can gather that, though she may be accepting - even interested - a gentleman does not brag about his lover to his lover's _wife_. 

She gives him a motherly smile and kisses his cheek. “You take care of him or you will be!” With that, she lets out a peal of sparkling laughter and calls Schuyler to _please_ help a woman into her seat. 

\---

They race up the stairs into the bedroom like horny college students, bolting the door behind them.

Washington throws Hamilton against the door so hard his head smacks against the wood. Immediately molests his mouth. A hand gropes Hamilton’s hardness through the fabric. It’s a familiar scene, of being overpowered, Washington taking and Hamilton giving. 

Not again.

Hamilton detaches himself.

“No.” He says. “We go slow now.”

Washington blinked. “Did I hurt you?” 

“No.”

“Before?”

“Yes. Only a little though.” Hamilton sits on the bed and pats the spot next to him. 

Washington sits.

Hamilton grabs his hand and kisses it.

“Sir--”

“Stop.” Washington says loudly. Hamilton fears that he has angered the General. That Washington will order him to leave the room. That maybe he should have just let Washington take since he did want to give so much. Didn’t the General deserve as much?

Quieter, “Please, Alexander, please. Not sir, not General, just….not here. At least not here. Just me. Just you.” 

“Yes. Just us. This is not a quick fuck. I want to go slow. We will both get hurt if we go too fast.” He is talking about more than just tonight and they both know it. 

Washington breathes deeply. “I can go slow.” And so he does.

He starts with the waistcoat, then quickly does away with the buttons on Alexander’s vest before tending to those on his shirt. Pushes it slowly backwards off his thin shoulders. Washington lays a series of kisses on the smooth skin of his chest. Scatters them across his shoulders. Presses another into his Adam's apple.

Alexander lays back on the bed as Washington unbuckles his breeches. _Breathe. In. Out. Breathe. In. O-Oh!_

His cock is enveloped in warmth. George Washington, "General & Commander in chief of the army of the United Colonies and of all the forces raised or to be raised by them,” is on his knees. Taking a far more subordinate role than any could have anticipated.

“Oh, you don’t have to. Oh, you don’t have to.” Hamilton chants until a particularly hard suck takes his words away. 

He puts a palm to Washington’s forehead to push him off. Grabs his collar and pulls him into a kiss. Hamilton tastes himself on his lover’s lips. His head spins a little faster.

Hamilton attends to the General’s clothing in a manner that was certainly not “slow.” Pulling themselves to the center of the bed, Hamilton rolls onto Washington’s large frame. He presses his hips down and glorifies when hips press up to meet his.

“Alex, you are so beautiful, the most lovely, my boy, oh my sweetest boy.” Washington babbles. He hopes one day he will get used to Alexander’s beauty, if only to make their lovemakings last and last. As it is, he is so, _so_ close.

They roll to their sides.

Hamilton reaches a hand between them and grips them both together. He moves his fist furiously.

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“Sir!”

Washington spills over first. But only by a breath or two.

\---

Afterwards, they lay together. Washington’s chest heaves. He stares intently at the ceiling.

Hamilton watches his lover’s face. He has learned a lot through observation in his months with the General. So he knows not to worry. Washington’s face is peaceful in thought.

“Alexander?”

“Mmm?"

“If you want, you may call me sir. When we are in here, in private, I mean. If you would like.”

“Yes, _sir."_


	5. The Battle of Monmouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm running out of "paper" titles. Gotta save them up. And this chapter is pretty literally all about the battle and its aftermath.
> 
> After reading more about the Battle of Monmouth, I'm feeling that Miranda did Lee dirty. However, Lee was a prick afterwards so all the hate is justified.

Paradise cannot last. It doesn't even make it a few days. The war continues on and so do they. Maybe Mrs. Washington's sudden departure was a surprise, but the fact is that they knew she would be leaving by the end of the month. Her absence, instead of providing time for the fledgling love affair to take wing, gives Washington the chance to make the decision to move out.

(Hamilton will later agree that it was actually the ideal time to march, but his mind doesn't think rationally when it concerned Washington and his bed)

On June 17th, they march out of Valley Forge with their great army. Washington leads. Hamilton rides some steps back. He had the army carpenter fashion a writing desk for his horse. (Of course he does). He writes and writes, listens and doesn’t speak.

They hadn't spoken much in the last few days. There was so much to plan, to organize, orders to give, bruised egos to soothe. Every aide-de-camp had a question of the General. When the General was busy (God, was he busy) they went to Hamilton, his acknowledged right hand man. Hamilton had the answers. It soothed his own bruised ego to be so important to so many important men.

Then they are marching to battle and that certainly isn't time to speak of love.

Hamilton is not scared of battle. He has imagined death so much it feels more like a memory. But he looks around at the generals and he is nervous. He has read their dissatisfactions with the Commander. He has heard it whenever he ventures out among the men. They are scared. And it makes Hamilton scared.

He is invested now in Washington’s success. Past the success of the revolution. He wants Washington to be remembered for the man he is, not just the Commander he is struggling to be over a rowdy group of rebels and inexperienced generals. 

When they bed down for camp, Hamilton puts his bedroll with the rest of the aides. 

On June 24th, they stop in Hopewell, New Jersey. Washington calls a council of war at Hunt House for the officers. He lays out their plan, the plan Hamilton knows to the letter. Not that he agrees with it. They will take some men from each brigade, so as not to deprive any captain of the entirety of his men, and create a special advance force. 

“Charles Lee will lead this advance force of troops toward the rear guard.”

But Lee has grown even more bold these days. Officers have told him of their support. Their concerns that Washington has no strategy at all in this war. 

“No.”

“No?"

“No. We are outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered, and, apparently, outplanned. To attack the British forces in such a head on attack is a suicide mission. I am wary enough to keep my men from a massacre, _Your Excellency_.”

Washington hides whatever emotion this scathing reply is meant to evoke, “Very well, General Lafayette will take the lead.”

The next day, seeing power slipping from his grasping hands, Lee changes his mind and decides to take the 5,000 troops to Englishtown. 

The pit in Hamilton’s stomach grows heavier with this news.

Washington has not spoken to him alone since they left Valley Forge. There are too many men around for more than a glance and a barked order. Hamilton longs to warn his Commander of….the bad feeling in his stomach? No, even if he could, Washington wouldn’t listen.

He wouldn’t listen.

\---

_June 28 1778_

_The Battle of Monmouth_

Lee botched the attack on the British.

They had spent all winter at Valley Forge, strategizing and plotting. Keeping soldiers alive with charity, prayers, and promises of freedom.

Lafayette ran his forces ragged to get the British in just the right position for the attack. 

Washington’s defensive position was perfect, unassailable.

Then Lee botched the attack on the British rearguard near the Courthouse. Did not seem to have either or a plan or control. His men began retreating almost immediately.

Washington sends orders: 

_Attack! Attack! Attack!_

Lee’s hesitation gives the British time to regroup. To catch onto their plans. To see the trap and turn it to their advantage.

The Americans are outnumbered.

Oh god, they are outnumbered.

They see Lee’s troops cross the river, scattering in all directions.

_Retreat! Retreat! Retreat!_

Hamilton can feel the rage pouring off Washington as he sits nearby. The main army is still solid but confusion is spreading. This battle will lose lives. But it must be fought. Washington rides to meet his Second in Command southeast of the bridge.

Lee rides straight to his Commander.

“I desire to know, sir, what is the reason for this disorder and confusion?” Washington’s voice is loud and crisp.

Sweat pours down from Lee's hat, his jacket is obviously soaked. “I...Your Excellency...General Scott...he pulled back.... without orders….We retreated to avoid massacre!”

“You avoid war, sir! ” He turns his horse, “Hamilton!” 

Alexander rides up quickly, “Ready, sir!”

Washington is the image of a commander. His uniform is still immaculate in the heat of the afternoon. His expression is deadly serious and calculating. He is a force of silent rage and calm as a storm. 

Hamilton falls in love with him in that moment.

But then the Commander in Chief sees a soldier, blood gushing through his waistcoat as he presses a hand to his wound. His cries for help rise over the sounds of approaching battle. For a moment, Washington sees Alexander there, bleeding. Dying.

“Have Lafayette take the lead!” His tone brooks no argument.

“Yes, sir!” Hamilton turns his horse and rides to Lafayette’s position. 

His mind splits into two thoughts. The first, obviously, was to find Lafayette. The second was to wonder how Washington justified choosing Lafayette over Hamilton. Lafayette had been at the right flank with Lee, right? Hamilton would never betray his friend by blaming him, but Lafayette would have at least had some part in the retreat?

Hamilton knew the battle positions better than anyone. He knew the strengths and weaknesses. He was brave and would follow through to his death. His loyalty to the General certainly couldn't be questioned!

His emotions were a mix of love, confusion, and, now, outrage.

But Washington won’t _listen._

\---

They snatch a stalemate from the jaws of defeat.

\----

_June 30 1778_

Washington withdraws the army to Englishtown where they take a brief rest. He takes over the dredges of Lee’s headquarters. He receives a highly improper letter from Lee. Hamilton almost doesn’t read it aloud, so fearful is he that this situation is already spiraling. It is already widely known that Lee shit the bed at the Battle of Monmouth. Lee is regarded as a villain by the soldiers and a coward by his fellow officers. Even the ones who had worked so hard to get him in the place of Second in Command.

Worse still, Lee blames Washington’s poor opinion of him on “ _dirty earwigs_.” His advisers. _Hamilton_.

Washington orders an investigation into Lee’s actions on the battlefield and after.

Lee demands a court martial. 

Washington orders his arrest.

It’s messy. It’s loud. It's not worthy of the General and Hamilton knows it. But Washington doesn’t ask for his opinion anymore. He is a bull crashing forwards with no reins for Hamilton to grab onto.

The rumors begin. 

At first, Hamilton doesn’t hear them. He is still so engrossed in his duties. But Laurens comes to him the morning of July 2nd. His expression is serious. He brings a flask and pours two tall glasses of whiskey.

“John, not while I’m on duty.” Hamilton laughs. 

Laurens doesn’t laugh, “Drink. This concerns your duties.” He himself takes a long gulp. Hamilton takes a more modest sip. He hasn’t indulged in awhile; it wouldn’t be wise to take more than a burning sip of hard liquor.

Laurens takes a deep, gulping breath. “Alexander, Lee is spreading rumors. No, _wait_. He is spreading rumors about _you_ and the General.” Another drink. “He is saying...saying that the General abandoned his wife for you. That you serve him like a whore! You have no war talents and get your pay as a whore! No...I...I have to tell you these things! I don’t want to. I have to. You have to know!!” Another deep drink. “Gods, Alexander. He says that he knows from his stay at Valley Forge. The officers have started talking too. That you are too close. Unnatural. It’s going through the troops now! I don’t know what to do!”

Laurens begins shaking. All the anger he has held in while eavesdropping on those conversations. The disgust at Burr’s response, _“Alexander is another Icarus, he has flown too close to the sun. I warned him.”_ Hate towards the soldiers who stand so far back in the battle that their uniforms are still clean, powder unused, and their mocking of Hamilton, who has dedicated his life to the revolution. Pure, red hot rage bolstered by the whiskey in his veins.

Alexander takes a long, slow drink. The shock is potent. He doesn’t feel rage; unlike Laurens, he doesn’t feel anything.

“What do I do?” He whispers. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know, Alexander. God, I don’t know.” Laurens is impressively distraught. Alexander is the closest friend he has. Sure, Burr is warm in the night and a clever strategist. But Alexander is pure loyalty, bravery, and brilliance itself. Laurens probably would have fallen in love with him if they didn’t become close as brothers that first night.

“Does His Excellency know?” 

Laurens shrugs, “You know his intelligences better than I.” He finishes off his glass. 

Hamilton shakes his head, “No matter. Lee’s court trial is in two days. The court will hold him accountable. I’ll talk to the General.”

He changes the subject. Discusses the abhorrence of slavery. Spain’s latest politics. Dwindling supplies.

He’ll make Washington listen tonight.

\---

“Your Excellency, a word.”

Washington turns from the conversation with General Scott, which was, in truth, already reaching its end. Scott smirks in Hamilton’s direction. Gives an exaggerated wink. Leaves without so much as a word of goodbye.

Washington is confused. _Has all his generals lost their manners and good senses?_

Hamilton hears Washington’s boot steps follow him into the ground floor bedroom, which serves as the General’s lodgings. He shuts the door behind him, conscious that even such an innocent act of having a private conversion risks feeding the rumor mill. 

“Alex, what is the meaning of this?” Washington looks exhausted and _old_ today. A weariness beyond his 46 years. His face is worn and drawn. He collapses onto the bed. A surge of worry hits Hamilton. But this news is serious and cannot wait.

“Sir, Lee is spreading rumors.” 

As expected, Washington sighs.

“I know. He is embarrassed. It will pass.”

“Rumors about _us_ , sir. He says I am your whore.” 

Washington turns to look at his lover. Hamilton looks so very young. His impeccably styled beard, the crease of worry between his eyebrows, a strand of hair has escaped his ponytail. He is so beautiful.

“Come here, Alexander.” He holds his arms out. Hamilton, touch starved for the last week, goes to him. Washington smells of the mint he chews for his teeth, ink, and sweat from the day’s labors. He had walked through the camp with his generals (Lee excluded, of course) to be seen by his troops. He greeted many with a handshake and a word of thanks. It had taken nearly the whole day.

“I needed you, today. Your smile. Your wit.” Washington whispers in his ear. He moves the stray hair from Hamilton’s face. “And I couldn’t have you. Because of a bitter, bitter little man spreading rumors. I know what rumors are spreading, Alex. Colonel Burr brought them to me yesterday. Cautioned me to send you home.” Not what he expected. Hamilton stiffens. _Burr? And what home? He has no home._ “But I can’t let you go. Not when simply catching sight of you at your silly little writing desk gives me the strength to go on. I need you so much.”

Alexander remembers the promise he made to Mrs. Washington and feels its weight. But he pushes on.

“Sir, if you gave me a command. You could trust me to -” He starts. If it had been himself instead of Lee, he is certain that fewer lives would have been lost that day.

It's Washington’s turn to stiffen. “No.” His eyelashes give Hamilton’s cheek butterfly kisses. His lips follow with real kisses. “Dearest, _no_. You are needed with me. Because I can trust you to be my voice and hold my confidences. You can’t leave me now.”

They come together in a desperate way. A bottle of oil emerges from a pocket. Buttons tear off in the urgency. Washington holds a palm over Hamilton’s mouth as he enters from behind. He whispers promises in Alexander’s ear of advancement (just not now), of being together at Mount Vernon (obviously not now), and of his love, his true love (for always, forever!).

 _Oh, just stay with me, Alexander_.

\---

_August 12, 1778_

The court finds Lee guilty of disobeying orders in not attacking on the morning of the battle, contrary to "repeated instructions"; conducting an "unnecessary and disorderly retreat"; and disrespect towards the commander-in-chief. They remove the word "shameful" after disorderly, and before retreat, and clarify that it was disorderly only "in some few instances."

Lee is given leave of his command and released from the army for one year.

It is an embarrassingly light sentence. It signals that the officers, though acknowledging that Washington had the authority to bring such charges and that they were founded, have lost some confidence in their Commander.

The rumors continue to spread, crashing through the troops until they hit Hamilton directly.

A cannonball finally meets its mark.


	6. Rumors Only Grow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hang in there. This chapter is a wild ride.

Clinton is back in New York City that July.

Washington holds the Hudson River Line, making his new headquarters at a camp near White Plains, just twenty miles north of Manhattan. 

Back where they started two years ago.

Hamilton understands logically that they had made a good show of force with Monmouth. But now everything is administrative once more. Washington orders the skirmishes instead of fighting in them. Orders that the campaigns direct to the South.

Hamilton stays with Washington in the North.

The rumors don’t stop though. They spread like wildfire through the camps. Hamilton one day leaves the safety of headquarters to deliver a missive and hears the soldiers' opinions of him. 

Whore.

Coward’s way out of fighting. 

A woman in a soldier’s uniform. 

God, the kind of _positions_ he’s earned. 

Shouting. Jeering. No shame in their taunts. Hamilton is a Lieutenant General in his own right through his position as aide-de-camp and he outranks them on many levels. He could order a whipping for disrespect or even removal from the army.

He doesn’t.

He rarely goes back among the men after that.

Washington makes an error in judgment. One that threatens to bring them to ruin and then does. 

There is an assassination attempt in August. They are not common, but hardly rare. British spies making sneak attacks from within. If they take Washington down, the army will fall. _Of course_ there are assassination attempts. This time it happens just before the General retires for bed. There is hardly anyone in the house. Hamilton is the one who fights the attacker off while calling for the other aides to come.

The General jests that Hamilton should be always on watch to help fight off any future attacks in his bedroom. He winks at Hamilton after he says this.

It’s reckless and stupid.

The other aides gape, mouths hanging comically open at the General’s misplaced humor.

Hamilton turns red. He has been angry at the General in the past. Over strategic decisions Hamilton doubted; the denial of command at Monmouth. He hasn’t felt rage though. Any true dissatisfaction with the General's action has always been covered by his intense devotion. Now, the sudden _hatred_ that swells towards Washington shakes him to the bone. He _sees_ red.

“Sir, with all due respect, it may be more appropriate for the other aides and I to take turns being on watch.” He says it quietly.

That seems to only make it worse. His words are taken wrong. The rumor starts that _all_ of Washington’s aides-de-camp are being buggered by the Commander-in-Chief. Aides begin asking for short leaves from the army or new generals to serve under until the rumors quell. It’s difficult to find new ones to fill their place that are at the level of excellence required, especially since the others have promised to come back and replace any new recruits.

They slip back into the cold, detached relationship they shared at Valley Forge for all those months. The stolen kisses and embraces were already sparse after Monmouth. They are now non existent Hamilton doesn’t visit to the General’s bed that week. Or the week after. They are never alone together now. 

Washington thinks Hamilton overreacted to a _joke_ and sees himself as horribly treated by his staff. His mood worsens when even more information leaks to the British on their positions. 

_Who is the damned traitor among them!?_

Hamilton’s work piles up dangerously high. He limits his sleep to three hours per day. Doesn’t eat if there isn’t anyone to notice. And, since it just himself, Tench Tilghman and Laurens, now returned briefly from his own command to help, no one does. The muscle mass he has acquired from army drills and running messages withers away with the days he sits at this little desk. He grows thin. 

Laurens is the go-between for Washington and Hamilton (who are hardly speaking after two weeks of their return to some version of platonic), as well as taking other tasks that require him to leave headquarters. It’s become obvious that it isn’t safe for Hamilton to leave.

\---

Laurens is off duty and Tench is stuck in another meeting with Washington. Hamilton barely leaves Headquarters (on a truly useless task he is convinced Washington made up) before he is grabbed by the back of his uniform. One attacker slams him against the side of the house and holds his left arm. A second takes hold of his right. The third pummels punches into his stomach until he pukes. He falls to the ground. That only gives his attackers the opportunity to kick at his head, which he tries in vain to cover with his arms. It isn't until Aaron Burr comes by to look for Laurens that the cowards run away.

"Alexander!" Burr kneels by his side. He lifts Hamilton's chin. Blood flows from his nose - it's probably broken. His front is covered in his own sick. Burr tears a handkerchief from his pocket and holds it painfully at the crooked nose. "Medic!" he cries. 

The motive is obvious, Hamilton is sure he heard "whore" at least once or twice in the attack. He doesn't divulge that fact. He won't have his pride wounded as well.

They don't find the attackers.

\---

So the writing is left to Hamilton.

That mountain of letters, meeting notes (from Laurens or Tench), and transcribing those meetings to the Journal. Ledgers, bills, recruitment letters...

His hand cramps and his eyes burn. His penmanship stays perfect. He burns through a store of candles and then orders more. Washington is planning their winter encampment, when the weather becomes too much for even the skirmishes. Supplies, lodgings, beg for money, write to France, write to congress, write to charities and foundations, write to _anyone_ who will write back.

He thinks maybe it’s because they know it’s him, _the whore_ , writing that they don’t reply. 

The camp at Middlebrook responds. They were there for a brief seasonal encampment back in 1777. It’s a good location, with Maryland to the East, Virginia to the West, Pennsylvania across the Raritan River. They’ll spread the brigades out, the army is close to 10,000 strong and growing since the “victory” at Monmouth, to minimize impact on the villagers. 

So. Much. Writing.

His lower back screams at him in pain. He is stock still whenever the General is working at his own larger desk in the center of the workroom. It hurts his back and neck to be so rigid, but he has received the brunt of Washington’s anger for his posture these weeks so he does not dare shrug his shoulders.

He is heartbroken. For a few short weeks he had Washington, the greatest man in America. Had his embraces, his kisses, his sweet whispers, his whole heart. It all had fallen through his fingers like water. He should have known he couldn’t hold a man like George Washington.

He hasn’t cried since that night Burr held him, after the first time Washington left him a mess on the floor.

_You can’t hold a man like Washington._

He has dreams where soldiers drag him from his bed and he is hung as a sodomite. In reality, they have no evidence, only rumors and the word of a disgruntled ex-general. Those who know anything are firmly on Hamilton's side. Or they were. 

Is anyone truly on his side?

He is a rope frayed to strings and about to snap under the pressure.

\---

_November 30, 1778_

Washington’s Army makes it to Middlebrook with little difficulty. The brigades follow the General’s orders - Hamilton’s plans - to their set locations. They build log cabins, cover them in clay to keep out the chill of the winter winds. 

Washington, with his aides-de-camp, all returned and ready to serve, rents the Wallace house. Washington will leave 11 days later to attend the Continental Congress in Philadelphia.

But so much can happen in 11 days.

It’s the second day, when they are unpacking the last of the writing supplies when it happens. Hamilton is straightening his papers, already thinking of a letter he needs to compose, when he notices something strange. 

His papers are red.

And….wet?

There is some scuffling in the background. Someone grabs him. It’s Tench. Tench is talking to him. But there is no sound coming out. That’s odd. Tench is looking down at Hamilton’s abdomen, looking frantic, still soundlessly screaming.

Hamilton looks down.

Oh.

Oh, well look at that.

There is something sticking out of his stomach.

The tip of a sword.

He’s been stabbed.

Oh.

\---

Sound comes back with roaring clarity. 

Hamilton.

He’s been stabbed.

He’s been stabbed.

Bring a medic.

God, the blood.

Get the General.

Hamilton.

Something to stop the blood.

Hamilton.

Stabbed.

Straight through.

Hamilton.

Blood.

Stabbed.

Hamilton.

Hamilton.

Hamllton. 

Hamilton leans his palms against his desk. He doesn’t know if he should kneel. Someone is holding a bundled shirt to his front, another is at his back. There isn’t pain. Shock has taken over too much for pain. But blood is pooling on his desk. This is bad.

“Alexander!” Washington’s face comes into view. Their foreheads are together. Hamilton hasn’t looked into those dark eyes in months. So close he can count the lines wrinkling at the edges. 

Then Washington’s face disappears. The medic is there, shouting directions. Somebody pulls the sword out. Hands immediately press against the wounds. He is on the ground now. His shirt is cut away. A cup is held against his lips. Whiskey pours into his mouth. He can’t remember how to drink. He chokes on it.

Everything gets muddled after that. Hamilton feels the needles sewing...sewing him back up like a ragdoll. His stuffing fell out. Just a rip. Sew it up. Sew it up.

The sounds echo in his head. He can’t see anymore, _thank god_. The shapes had made him dizzy. He had only closed his eyes for only a moment and a hand slapped him hard. But so many people were running around it made his head spin. He didn’t think so many people could fit in the workroom. The whole army is here. They’ve captured him. They’ll take him. He’s off to the gallows for sure.

Sounds and more sounds. The medic is speaking very gently, and Alexander must thank him for that later when he comes back from his hanging, but everyone else is so loud. It echoes and echoes. They keep asking things of him. _Breathe. Eyes open. Squeeze my hand. Breathe. Stay with me. Breathe._ Can’t they see he is busy being sewn up and then he is off to the gallows? 

He is on a different ground now. A softer one. Grass. He has fallen on the field. Yes, he’s at the Battle of Princeton. He’s fallen. But he must get up to position the cannons. If only his arms would _move_.

The needles are gone, thankfully, but someone is holding his hand down. 

“Oh Alex, please, please _stay alive_ , God please no, not him….stay alive....” 

Then darkness.

\---

Alexander Hamilton lies limp on the Commander’s bed. He is pale, with blood smears on his bare chest. The bandages are soaked with blood. The medics put new ones on top of the old. They are scared of disturbing the wound.

They are all covered in blood. Tench took the brunt of the early bleeding. Washington took over holding Alexander up as the medic sewed up the wound in the back before working on repairing the insides. The rest got bloody from peripheral activities: ringing out blood rags, guiding Alexander to the floor and then carrying him to the bed, cleaning the workroom afterwards.

The sword had gone through at an angle. A miracle it didn't slice an organ. A miracle it pierced only muscle and some fat. A lucky wound.

But Hamilton lost so much blood. He is still at risk of infection. He could fade away in the night.

The medic stays on standby. Three more are called to weigh in on the prognosis.

Washington rubs Alexander’s cold hand in some fruitless effort to get some warmth back into his body. He begs for Alexander to stay with him. A memory comes to mind. Valley Forge. He begged then too. They still came apart. And now it’s so much harder for them both. The decision is out of their hands. Beyond his orders.

Washington weeps. Great gulping sobs of wretched sorrow. He begs harder for God to spare Hamilton. Offers up his own life in exchange.

The medics take their leave to the hallway during this display of grief.

Aides-de-camp Tilghman and Laurens, both of whom refused to leave the room, bowed their heads at the scene. They share a look, promising silently that they would never recount this scene. It doesn't matter anyway. The remaining aides, the secretaries, and a few captians left downstairs can hear the scene clearly.

No one writes it down for history.

\---

Hamilton seizures in the night. His whole body shakes with it. The medics grab his arms and shove a twisted rag between his teeth.

Laurens wails then, held by an equally distressed Tench. Washington paces the room. His boot steps almost cover the sounds of the bed rattling. 

The medics grumble together. They say something about balancing the blood. _What blood? He has no blood left!_ They mix together dried herbs. Someone fetches hot water. They pour it into a mug.

The seizure stops. Hamilton lays so still that Washington is convinced he has died. The General falls to his knees, curls into himself like a child. But then he hears the medics continue in their work. He raises his head to see them pour the mug’s contents into Hamilton’s mouth, whose throat swallows with reflex.

 _Alive_.

\----

Washington drifts in and out of consciousness through the night. The aides-de-camp take turns watching him throughout the next day. He asks for reports. Then orders reports when the aides-de-camp hesitate. Gibbs gets the unlucky shift.

“An assassin.”

“Obviously,” Washington glowers, “for me?”

Gibbs shuffles his feet, “No, for him. Just for him. Man said he did it for your soul. We have him, sir.”

“Hang him.”

“Yes, sir.” No questions. No observations that there needs to be a trial, proper channels to be followed. Doesn't even confirm a name. Aaron Burr had barely kept the aides from hanging the bastard last night. Could not keep Laurens from breaking the man’s face and likely causing internal bleeding in his extremities. Gibbs was more than happy to take the order.

Washington doesn’t care anymore about that man’s fate. His attention turns back to Hamilton. Still so pale and so cold.

 _Stay alive_.

\---

Lafayette visits in the afternoon. He sits in the chair opposite Washington and stares at the lifeless body in the bed. A body. Not Hamilton. Not the vibrant _Little Lion_ whom Harrison nicknamed not too long ago.

The body releases a shallow breath and then sucks in another.

“Marquis.” The General acknowledges him without emotion. He is spent of all emotion. It all went to Hamilton long ago anyway.

“Excellency, will he live?” Lafayette’s throat feels thick with tears. He himself spent much of the day in shock, followed by tears. He only resisted the urge to get obscenely drunk with the others through the knowledge he still hadn’t seen Hamilton. He had half convinced himself that his friend was already dead.

But his friend lays motionless in the bed, barely alive but alive just the same. 

Washington does not answer.

Lafayette racks his brains for any subject of conversation he can invite the General into. Every subject falls flat as too frivolous for such a serious situation or too serious that it would risk adding stress to such a stressful situation.

He stays quiet.

Washington keeps his vigil.

\---

On the night of December 3rd, two days after the stabbing, Hamilton wakes. Groggy, to be sure. His eyes are unfocused and he can’t lift his head, but his eyes open and flick over to where Washington still sits. The General lays a hundred kisses on his palm.

“ _Hamilton_.” Affection threads through Washington's voice.


	7. Helpless

Hamilton doesn’t stay awake long. He barely lasts long enough to feel the fevered kiss to his forehead.

\---

The light is brighter the next time he wakes. 

Daytime.

Washington is near.

“Sir?” Hamilton’s voice is raspy with disuse. His body is heavy. He slowly gathers that he is injured. Can’t remember for the life of him what the injury is or what happened.

Which is inconvenient; he has work to do. 

All that writing…

Washington is sitting at his bedside, his head buried in arms folded on the bed. Washington doesn’t react to Hamilton’s scratchy whisper. Hamilton deduces that he is sleeping, given the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. 

His left hand gets grabbed with enthusiasm.

“My friend!” Laurens excitedly whispers, bestowing a kiss to Hamilton’s knuckles. Bags hang heavy under his eyes. His hair, never perfect, is in complete disarray. If Hamilton is honest, and he is just too tired not to be honest, Laurens looks _terrible_. 

But Hamilton is sure he looks worse.

“My friend.” Hamilton’s lips form the ghost of a smile in agreement. He manages to choke out a question, “How?”

Lauren’s brow furrows.

“I shouldn’t distress you.”

“ _Please_.” Not even a sound, just the movement of his lips. Laurens understands him anyway.

“An attack. In headquarters. You were stabbed. Through the back. You’re alive. That’s it.” The important bits, that is. Laurens doesn’t tell how they thought the Commander had gone mad with grief. The man they hung two days ago. The cheers when the bastard's legs stopped kicking. The torture Laurens himself had inflicted before the execution. The lack of trial. The depravity of it all.

Hamilton seems satisfied enough.

Washington must hear their whispers, so on edge is he even in sleep. He lifts himself up off the bed and rubs at his eyes. The gap shows between his front teeth when he smiles widely at Hamilton.

“Alexander.” The General’s voice is hoarse as well. If Laurens looked _terrible_ , Hamilton is hard pressed to find a word to describe Washington. Deep bags under his eyes. Stubble across his usually smooth chin. His clothes rumpled and bloodstained. _My blood._ He realizes that Washington has probably been at his side for nearly the entire time he was unconscious. He hopes someone has forced the General to eat or drink.

(He later learns that Lafayette threatened to withdraw French aide when Washington refused food on the morning of the second day. Laurens literally threatened to tell his father, Henry Laurens, _President of the Continental Congress_ , when dinner had come and gone. Finally, they threatened to write to Martha. That did the trick.) 

Hamilton tries to sit up, to show some modicum of respect to his commander. Laurens presses his shoulder back down into the bed, just as the hissing pain of his wound takes him by surprise. Hamilton’s hands go to cover his aching belly but the two other men are quicker. They hold down his hands in vice grips and press on his thighs with their full weights as Hamilton breathes through the pain.

Well, at least he knows where the injury is now.

“You’ll pull your stitches.” Washington explains, when the worst of the searing pain fades back into its dull thud. The General lays a firm kiss on Alexander’s head and presses their foreheads together. Alexander angles his chin for another kiss, which is gladly given.

Laurens is suddenly no longer in the room.

“Alexander.” Washington whispers into his lips, beginning a series of feather soft kisses. It feels like a dream. The kisses feel real enough, thankfully, and so does the pain in his stomach, unfortunately, but the rest of it...a dream. In no present reality should George Washington be kissing him. Especially when there must be a dozen or more soldiers milling around in the house.

(He will later learn that Lafayette, Tench, Burr, and Laurens have been taking turns guarding the door and there is little to worry about.)

Hamilton wants to stay in this dream. It’s such a nice one. But the darkness is so inviting and he slips away again.

\---

Washington knows fear.

The mythos has it that he has never felt fear but that is exactly why it is so laughable. He knows fear. Battles where his men fall around him and the iron smell of blood pervades the air. Standing in front of an army of thousands, seeing the faces of boys pretending to be men, and attempting to instill courage. The day he found five perfect paper flowers on his desk in Valley Forge.

Washington knows how to control fear and use it to drive him forward.

No, these days have not been filled with fear. They have been filled with _terror_. He knows the men think he reached the brink of sanity these days but the truth is that he went over the edge. That moment he thought Alexander was lost was the most horrible moment he ever had lived. He had gone over into insanity. Only the slight movement of Alexander’s swallow brought him back from its depths.

If Washington could erase his memories at will, he would clear his mind of the sight of Hamilton dripping with blood. It was so much worse than he had imagined at Monmouth. Washington could not have imagined the ashen hue Alexander's skin could take. Those intelligent eyes devoid of understanding. Those eyes had not even recognized him. _Shock_ , his experience thankfully supplied. 

Hamilton's blood had been so warm, seeping through his shirt. Washington did not know how much blood a person could have until it all spilled out of Alexander's stomach. He could feel that heart beating as he gripped him tight. That heart beat grounded him. If it kept going, Alexander was still there. 

Then that seizure....

Maybe he needs to be more worried about the reports the men downstairs take to their commanders. The other generals already doubt his ability to manage the army. Add in the titles of madman and sodomite and he’ll be lucky to make it back to Virginia alive.

But he’s not worried. _Because it doesn’t matter._ They don’t matter. The damned war doesn’t matter. Only the small, pale figure fighting his own battle in that over-large bed matters.

It's stupid of him. So many men depend on his experience and judgment. America can't afford for Washington to be a lovesick fool. But he has given enough to America this year when it was Hamilton who needed his attention.

He hadn't properly parsed out his feelings for Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton until he was almost lost. The feelings were a mix of sexual attraction, admiration, and, in his own way, devotion. It was all fire and heat and solidness that drew Washington down an unfamiliar path.

How that violence, that hatred, drew them apart baffles Washington. Both too stubborn to admit wrongdoing, too devoted to put the other out of his misery by ending whatever romantic understanding they had come to. They couldn't be husbands; Washington had Martha and loved her sincerely as his wife. They were more than lovers; though physical intimacy seemed the core of their short romantic relationship. It was insulting to think of them as General and Lieutenant Colonel. If they had spent more time to actually know each other's souls, Washington might call them soulmates. How else can he explain that invisible rope that holds them together? But a handful of weeks combined in the course of a year had not given them that time to know the other's truths. 

Hamilton loves him. A devoted, puppy-like love, Washington thinks. He is aware of the figure he strikes to these young men: the experienced, venerated Virginian veteran whose men are all lining up, to put him up on a pedestal. Rich. Elegance. Eloquent. Alexander had fallen for this myth of a man.

Washington then realizes he knows almost nothing of Alexander before the war. The earliest fact he can dredge up in his brain is that Alexander had been at Kings College before the war. He knows from his own eavesdropping that Alexander has no blood relatives around. Washington has never seen a letter or heard a reference to them. 

It's time souls were bared. If Alexander makes it through, and all indications show he should do so with time, Washington will right his wrongs. If Alexander will take it, Washington will deliver his soul. 

\---

Hamilton wakes again at noon. Washington forces him to swallow some bread softened in broth. The doctors warn him that it will be hard on his stomach after days on herbal concoctions and plain broth. They are right. Hamilton vomits the lot back up. He is embarrassed that it is Washington who holds the bowl and wipes his mouth for him.

But Washington won't _leave_.

At least when Hamilton is awake.

Hamilton sees Washington has freshened up. A clean outfit. Smells less like death and more like cologne (which gives Hamilton a headache but at least he no longer can smell his own blood so he does not comment). Washington looks handsome as ever. His eyes sparkle with...something. Honestly, it's too much for Hamilton to consider now, especially with the headache and now the taste of vomit in his mouth.

"I'm sorry." He mumbles and turns away.

Washington takes another clean cloth and wipes his sweaty brow, "Don't apologize." The General orders. He has been present for more of Alexander's care than he is sure Alex would approve of and certainly isn't bothered by a little vomit. "We will try again when your stomach settles."

Hamilton's lip quirks, "Are you a nurse now, Your Excellency?" His humor is returning. Good.

"Alexander," The General chides softly, "we've talked about the use of titles in private."

Except they aren't in private. Lafayette is taking in the scene as an amused spectator while the medic pretends to busy himself with his supply table. Hamilton doesn't know if he has enough blood to blush yet, but he's sure the balance of it is now warm in his face.

He thinks better than to point this fact out though. The General is stroking his forehead again. Hamilton squirms under that intense focus on him. Like the whole war turns on his recovery. It's a waste of resources to have even an hour of the General's time taken up, much less days. Its absurdity strikes him through. All for _him_? Whom the General hasn't recognized as anything more than a workhorse for months now?

"Hamilton, mon ami, dearest friend," Lafayette is the one who breaks the silence. Hamilton could kiss him. "You will tell the General he has permission to return to his duties, yes? That your fellow soldiers and _caring_ friends can take over your care now?" Unspoken, _please help me here_.

Hamilton doesn't hesitate, "Yes, please, your--George, sir, you are needed far more by the army. Lafayette is here. Laurens, I'm sure, can spare an hour or two. Please do not neglect your duties for my poor sake." He pleads.

Washington's face flashes disappointment before it resumes its standard grim, stoic expression.

Washington nods. He turns to Lafayette, "You'll give me your report when Laurens takes watch." He commands.

"Reeeeport?" 

"Of Colonel Hamilton's condition." 

"Oh, oui."

The General's boot steps fade away. His voice echoes through the house as he restores order in the workroom.

"You broke him. You Americans had an excellent general and you broke him." Lafayette shakes his head with mirth. He is teasing, of course, in his odd way.

Hamilton fidgets uncomfortably. He has never been so stationary in his life. Hasn't even been sick since his mother...since he was a child. Guilt fills him when he think that both he and the General have been unavailable these last precious days. Anxiety rises to compete with that guilt. Sure, he is certain sleep will fill some of the hours during the healing process, but what about the remainder. To be left with his thoughts at this juncture in his life would a fate worse than death.

"He has been concerned?" Alexander squeaks out.

Lafayette snorts, "Oui, he has been _concerned_. Hamilton, he has been a man obsessed. And _you_ are the obsession. He leaves for Philadelphia in less than a week and nothing is arranged." 

If Hamilton didn't remember lessons already learned, he would have shot up from the bed, "Of course it is! It's been planned for a month. The plans are on my desk...."

Oh yes. The blood stained papers. He doesn't suppose they would have kept them. But he could rewrite up the introductory letters, record the route from memory, if they would only give him a pen!

Lafayette waves the image away. "Non. I do not think he will leave you. I'm sure other generals will go in his place."

This is exactly the time Congress needs to see the General. After the battle, after the rumors. If Congress could just see General Washington and feel the stature he exudes, it will all be fixed. Washington is the face of this war. Washington has to go. 

It's clear that Hamilton, injured though he is, will just have to go with him.


	8. Middlebrook Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief chapter because I feel some space needs to be filled between Middlebrook and the continental congress for some reason. It just didn't really fit with ch. 7 or ch.9 so it's a floating chapter.
> 
> I also needed to introduce the spy ring. Just watched Turn again and Tallmadge is 1000% making an appearance in the upcoming chapters.

Hamilton is not permitted to travel with Washington as he leaves for Philadelphia. He rants, he begs, he guilt-trips, all to no use. Washington has returned to his usual stoic self and it is like talking to a rock. Actually, Hamilton may have more luck convincing a rock since his pleas seem to have the opposite effect on Washington.

“Do not insult my intelligence, Alexander,” Washington says from his bedside, reading a letter with a grim expression. When he is not in meetings with his officers and merely reading notes and correspondences, Washington remains with Hamilton. 

In truth, this room should have been Washington’s own private bedroom and office at the start. Not that anyone challenges the Commander in Chief on where he reads his letters that he needs to justify it.

“You dying on the road would be a waste of the good doctor’s efforts. And would be akin to murder on my part for permitting it.”

Hamilton huffs in frustration, “Sir, if we can revisit the wagon plan?” His initial idea: a wagon, fill with blankets, with a medic to attend him in case of emergency. The doctors, Washington, and, from what Hamilton can tell, _the entire army_ disagrees with him. The fury in Laurens response had quieted him when he first presented the idea.

Washington ignores him on that.

“In any case, you are on leave from your duties while you recover, Alexander.” 

“So you mock me by bringing your work to my bedside?” The high pitch of a whine comes into his voice. 

Washington rolls his eyes.

“Who are the letters from?” Hamilton closes his eyes, hoping the burning ache of his healing wound will lesson if he has something to turn his mind to. 

Hamilton knew bedrest would be difficult. Instead of the blessed sleep he thought would come, his wound itches and burns. When the doctors come to change his bandages, Hamilton nearly grabs his hair in pain. Recovering is a nasty business. 

“Tallmadge,” His voice was perfectly still, except it was a bit too curt. Too much purpose behind that single name. Hamilton’s ears prick with interest.

“What does Major Tallmadge, our dear director of _military_ _intelligences_ , have to say?”

Hamilton did not truly expect an answer.

So he was surprised when one came.

“A spy ring in New York.” Washington all but whispered. As if the walls had ears.

(After the last massacre of their men, Hamilton began to believe they did).

He does not need to ask _theirs or ours?_ They know there is some network of British spies. So this must be _ours._ Hamilton had had an inkling that a spy network of sorts was in the midst of construction - his proximity to the General had given him clues, even if he had not been privy to the meetings. 

“You will not say more?” Alexander asks when silence filled the room.

“I dare not. I will say that I will find this damnable traitor among us.”

Hamilton opens his eyes. He makes an effort to keep his features blank, “And if you find that I am the spy?” Most because he is bored and wants to see the general’s expression.

But Washington has grown used to Hamilton’s tired sort of mischievousness these days and does not rise to the bait.

“Alex, if the British had you in their service they would have won the damned war by now. You are a creature of the revolution. And entirely my man.” 

“Yes.” Alexander breathes out at that.

Because, well, that's true. Washington has whispered as much in the darkness. A possessiveness that Hamilton fears borders on obsession since he was attacked. His devotion during Alexander’s healing, when the _little lion_ certainly was not fierce or fiery or even attractive in his suffering, has almost made up for the last few months. 

Almost.

Hamilton, feeling that he had some decision he still had not made, hesitates to accept Washington’s whispered apologies and promises. Which may be what makes them so impassioned. They had been whispered before in the throes of passion. But now, to hear them out in the open, so reasoned and logical, gives Alexander pause. He stills wants to prove himself to the General, to continue to _earn_ his successes.

If Washington had his own way, Alexander would be in a golden cage with a writing desk. Safe from danger but also from any chance of command.

Alexander has made himself so invaluable and dear to the General in both his skills and affections that future advancement may stalemate. 

\---

"Alexander!"

"Mr. Burr, sir!"

"Well well, I didn't think that you would make it."

"To be sure, sir? Such confidence you have in my fortitude and the good doctors' talents."

Burr laughs, "When you get skewered like a pig on a spit, certain conclusions are drawn." He sits in Washington's empty seat.

The General left this morning for Philadelphia.

Without his right hand man. 

Alexander is happy Burr has come to visit him. The rest of the aides-de-camp, though friendly and do well to check in on him, especially Laurens and Tench, don't stop for conversation as often as Alexander would like. 

Burr does not reach out to stroke his forehead, as Washington would do. Burr does not lay a hundred kisses on his knuckles, as Laurens would do. Burr does not even hold his hand, as Lafayette would do.

He is an image of stiffness and propriety, even when they are alone. Alexander wants to shake it out of him.

"I am happy that you are looking well."

"I walked today." He knows how childish it sounds. But they _finally_ let him walk himself to the chamber pot even though Hamilton is sure that he could have done so days ago but did not risk it with the General keeping watch. His legs were weak. He fell into Laurens's arms at first. But he _walked_. He would get better. He was getting better.

"Wonderful." Burr praised. 

The visit continued in a sort of stilted conversation. Pleasantries, niceties, boring gossip that Lafayette brought him days ago.

Alexander, his mischievousness rising, throws a rock into their fragile conversation: "You don't approve of my relationship with the General?"

That caught the unflappable Burr off guard! His mouth hung open and his brow furrowed, "What?"

"You don't like my relationship with the General." No longer a question.

"Alexander, you more than proved your worth at Trenton and Kips Bay, I do not consider myself a jealous man."

(Which, not true, but okay)

"Not my _job_." Alexander gives an exasperated sigh, "My relationship." 

Burr looks angry then and hisses, "Alexander, please, you know how reckless this is. I'm _worried_ about you, that's all. We both know you can be rash and naive and..."

"Is this how you speak to a man on his deathbed?"

"Alexander, you'll be the death of _me_. Don't broach a subject if you don't want an answer. You've already been abandoned by him several times over. When the war is done, then what? When there is no practical reason for you to be at his side, will he keep you there?"

That hurt. 

Burr didn't know the promises though. He could not guess the depths of Alexander's heartbreaks during those times of "abandonment" (really, how can it be abandonment when you still spent most of the day together?) or that the General's heartaches sounded so much like his own. That meant _something_.

"I suppose I could ask the same of you and Laurens."

"Don't bring John into this." Burr stands then, his fists balled tightly at his side. Alexander wonders if Burr would risk hitting an infirmed man. If Alexander could really push him so far. There is a look in his eyes...

"Does he know yet, that you love him?"

"Goodbye, Alexander." Burr literally stomps out of the room.

Hamilton regrets poking at Burr's feelings after silence descends on the room once again.

So much for his friendly visitor.

\---

_"Certainly you don't love me." Burr laughs into his shoulder. Alex had said as much not three minutes earlier, as he was babbling in Burr's ear while those hands did such wonderful work below the waist._

_"Certainly I could." Alexander joins._

_He plants a firm kiss on Burr's shaven head._

_Burr wriggles away._

_"No, you certainly can't, Alexander. Don't ruin a good thing."_


	9. A Letter of Recommendation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updates should be pretty steady for the next week as I am on vacation and have more time to work on the fic. 
> 
> Thanks for your kindness, everyone!

Aaron Burr is not in love with Alexander Hamilton.

His breath does not catch whenever those intelligent eyes flicker his way. 

His thoughts don’t drift into the shape of a scrawny man dressed in a slightly crumpled blue uniform with jet black hair tied into a tight, high ponytail. His jaw doesn’t clench when he sees his Commander in Chief lay a possessive hand on those shoulders. He doesn’t feel his heart burning nor does feel the need to turn away. 

The most important thing, above all, is that Aaron Burr is not in love with Alexander Hamilton.

Nor is he in love with John Laurens. So put that out of your mind as well. His heart does not ache now that Laurens no longer shares _private meetings_ with him. He does not think back on their last heated exchange of words, after Alexander had been attacked. His lips don’t mouth apologies that never were said. He doesn't imagine Laurens's own lips...

Aaron Burr has never been in love, not with either man previously discussed nor with anyone else. He simply isn’t capable of falling for something as stupid and unpredictable as _love_.

But Aaron Burr is a known liar, so take his words with some measure of salt.

\----

_February 1779, Middlebrook Encampment_

Martha Washington is not in love with George Washington.

And she is not a liar, so you can take that as gospel.

She thought they were in love, once. Years ago on a hot summer night in Virginia, watching him lecture her boys or carry her sleeping young daughter to bed after a long party. Or when he danced with her with that famous graceful recklessness. Or when he bent down to look into her eyes as he kissed her.

And maybe that was the first clue because what devil keeps his eyes open while kissing? 

No, Martha Washington loves George like her dearest friend and cherishes him like a piece of her own soul. 

When she arrives at the Middlebrook Encampment that winter with George, she gets definitive proof that her husband's heart has been captured. 

Alexander runs out of Headquarters like a school boy as George’s white horse, Nelson, draws to a stop. Martha is sure that the greeting party really had been at the first camp they passed but George rode straight through.

The young aide-de-camp has the look of tired excitement. Ink stains his hands and one of his cheeks. His uniform is wrinkled (really, has the standards dipped so low since she left last year?) and strands have escaped his tight ponytail.

And he is so excited.

The air is thick with the static of their attraction. Martha wonders briefly if George will lose himself and sweep his paramour off his feet. But they merely stare at one another. 

Alexander remembers himself and stands at attention, “Sir!” He barks out.

George _grins_ , “ _At ease_ , Lieutenant. Thank you so much for your greeting. It appears that I did not make my arrival well enough known in advance.” He scans the growing crowd of aides-de-camp and out of breath generals who had run to catch up when the General rode past.

One sputters but doesn’t form words.

Alexander _grins_ right back, “Sir, _I_ am always at your service.” Martha thinks she sees a wink.

Oh, so that is still their style. Adorable and clever. But now flirting in plain sight. Not a soul could write a reproach on it. What would they say? Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton greeted the Commander-in-Chief, who thanked him in return?

Quieter now. “Indeed, you’ll provide a briefing immediately.”

_Careful, George._

“Yes, sir. I hope to be thorough to your satisfaction.” Almost silent.

_Oh, please have some restraint, Alexander._

Martha spins herself to greet the crowd and works her magic to distract from her husband disappearing inside with his favorite aide-de-camp. If Washington's heart has been captured, she'll make sure it stays secure.

\---

Hamilton leads Washington into the lovingly nicknamed War Room. It is a wide space, where the aides-de-camp desks and writing tools are spaced neatly around a large oak table, with a single chair intended for the General but had been long occupied by Hamilton this winter. Hamilton’s choice gives them little privacy and is calculated. Anyone could walk in. But that same fact that keeps ardor at bay also will keep the rumors down.

Washington stares at Alexander. The months had made Alexander heartier, stronger. Despite the winter’s harsh chill, his complexion is ruddy and healthy. 

The same boy that had emerged pale and thin from death’s door those short months ago now stood as a man, a leader. Washington had received the reports from his other aides-de-camp that Alexander had proved an excellent leader of the pack while the Commander-in-Chief argued their case to Congress. And the men, _thank the Lord_ , had listened.

“Alexander, you look so well.” Washington remarks. He regrets that it cannot capture the whole of his feelings.

Hamilton rubs his neck in uncharacteristic shyness, “Thank you, sir. I am glad you have returned safely, sir.” It’s too formal but the air is sticky with awkwardness.

Washington moves forward and bends his tall frame. He flicks his eyes briefly around the room before planting a sound kiss on Alexander’s lips. 

Hamilton quirks his lips into a smile. “You look so well too, sir.” He steps backwards suddenly. “How is our newest President of the Continental Congress?” 

Washington grimaces and feels his shoulders slump both at Alexander’s distance and at the thought of the Congress. John Jay. Clever, cordial but another man with empty promises but virulent demands on the Army. 

“We will continue to be judicial with the resources our French allies can spare us for we cannot trust Congress to supply more. On another matter, how has our Mr. Tallmadge been performing? Few of his reports have reached my ears.”

Hamilton laughed, “Fewer have reached your desk here, sir. Mr. Benjamin Tallmadge may be just as full of air as Congress.” 

Another grimace. “Then let us move to another topic. I believe you promised to be thorough.” He captures Hamilton lips again in a rougher kiss. A demanding kiss that had Hamilton grasping at Washington’s arms in desperation. Hamilton weathers the attack by returning the kiss with equal vigor. He pulls Washington even closer.

Which is how Aaron Burr finds them.

\----

Aaron Burr knew of the romance. He nurtured Alexander through the lovespats this past year. Burr watched that arrogant bastard Washington serve cool glances mixed with ice words after Monmouth. He even felt a little sympathy when Alexander’s face crumpled in tragic heartbreak. 

But _seeing_ the romance, and observing that passion….

Burr keeps his emotions close to his chest and stifles them when they became too raw. The deepest grief can be subsided to a few isolated tears if one could control it. The purest passion can pass after a well spent evening.

Alexander is an uncontrolled fire. He can burn everything in his path. Including Burr himself. Obviously was burning up the General.

Burr avoids emotion, only dabbles in the physical passion when nature overwhelms. He is above it.

His heart though, that uncontrollable bastard traitor, yearns suddenly for someone to make it **_burn._**

\----

Martha listens politely as Richard Meade details the intricacies of tracking the enemies movements to her. She then turns tactfully to Caleb Gibbs, and he complains about the household expenses. She cleverly engages them both into conversation before detaching herself to sit by Alexander at the window.

The sun had long since set. A few volunteer aides had come by with instruments otherwise kept carefully hidden and played jaunty tunes. 

“Ma’am.” Alexander rises quickly and guides her to her seat. She again marvels at his good looks and the innocent naivety he continues to exude, despite…

She furrows her brow, “You are healed.” It isn’t a question. She knows Alexander will give only one answer.

“Yes.” He sits himself near her without leave. He can sense a delicate conversation when one presents itself. Since taking over the command in Washington's absence, he had been part of many sensitive discussions. (He understands Washington's stress so much better now, after hearing all the petty squabbles and serious threats to their safety even in the winter months. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. Thank goodness for Washington's return. Hamilton would rather take another sword to the gut than continue to play nanny and guardsman to the army.)

“I am so sorry. I feel I am to blame, you know.” She drops her voice into a whisper. “I should not have left. I left you exposed. They would not have dared touch you if I was there.” 

Hamilton smiles at the thought of Martha Washington with a bayonet, on the front lines. “You would make a good soldier, ma’am, and a better general than most.”

She lets out a noise that might have been a sob or a laugh. She grabs his head and plants a kiss on his forehead. A vision of her own Jacky flashes before her eyes as Alexander smiles up at her. She feels she needs to protect him, as a mother would.

“Ma’am, I am the one that must apologize. You gave me a singular mission to take care the General when you departed. I fear that I failed that mission."

Martha finds another smile, “Oh, Alexander.” She looks over at her husband, deep in a serious talk with Lafayette, likely regarding French aid. “You above all know that my husband is a complicated and difficult man. You’ve done wonderfully.”

And for a moment, looking at Mrs. Washington’s warm gaze, Hamilton thinks that maybe things will be alright.

\---

_March 1779_

_Middlebrook Encampment_

_Dear Sir,_

_Laurens, who will have the honor of delivering you this letter, is on his way to South Carolina, on a project, which I think, in the present situation of affairs there, is a very good one and deserves every kind of support and encouragement. This is to raise two three or four batalions of negroes; with the assistance of the government of that state, by contributions from the owners in proportion to the number they possess. If you should think proper to enter upon the subject with him, he will give you a detail of his plan. He wishes to have it recommended by Congress to the state; and, as an inducement, that they would engage to take those batalions into Continental pay_ ….

Laurens reads the first paragraph with gleeful excitement. He jumps up to hug his friend, still a touch too gently, being mindful of the still newly healed wounds. Alexander warmly embraces him back, clutching his friend tighter. He had despised being treated like fragile glass when his wounds were fresh. He would not tolerate it now that he was _almost_ back to normal.

Following his _injury_ , Alexander had noted a greater respect among the men. No more whispers behind his back. No more glares. Just a healthy dose of grim nods and respectful bows, when appropriate. He stepped into the role of pseudo-second-in-commander after Lee's dismissal. And the respect of the soldiers earns the respect of the generals and, following that line of logic, Congress.

 _(“You have a victory wound, Alexander. Just as much as General Arnold. The enemy struck true but you proved truer. Whether or not you wanted a trial by combat, you got one. You won.”_ Laurens explained shortly after the assassination attempt.)

Now his words, a letter where he acknowledges himself by penning his own name, the first letter in which he has done so in for months (when it has been to anyone other than Washington, that is), will be to the benefit of his dearest friend.

“You will make us proud, dear friend. Show us what you can do.” Alexander whispers into his friend's ear, before tucking the letter away into the gunny sack on Laurens's back.

Laurens grins broadly at his friend before ducking his head out the door of Headquarters. “ _And more_.” He says shortly, with a wink. The sun outlines his frame behind him. Gone with a smile but, curiously, without a farewell.

Hamilton shivers as a sharp feeling of foreboding passes over him.

\---

“Where are you going?” Aaron Burr calls out just as Laurens mounts his house at the stables. Burr is out of breath. He had been in a near run since he saw Laurens heading toward the stables and sprinted when he saw Laurens grab the reins.

Laurens frowns as he looks down at Burr. There is still sourness between them. They haven’t spoken in almost a month. Not since Burr claimed Alexander had been basically “asking to be killed.” 

_“Asking to be killed? Are you insane? He did nothing-”_

_“He seduced the Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army. Hardly nothing!”_

_“Seduced? I think it was more mutual th-”_

_“Washington was not stabbed through. Didn’t even lose rank after his conduct at Alexander’s bedside. And no consequences. That’s not mutual. Alexander knew the risks. I told him the risks. Soldiers don’t approve of sodomy.”_

_“The ignorance of others is-”_

_“Alexander is ignorant to any view but his own.”_

_“Aaron, you prove yourself the ignorant one. Don’t consider yourself his friend. Nor mine, for that matter.”_

Now Burr looks up with his dark brown eyes wide. Laurens looks into those eyes and feels that fear so palpable and raw. Despite himself, Laurens heart melts a little.

“I am off to start a battalion, with luck.” Laurens responds. 

“You’ve resigned from your position on the staff?” Burr asks, gripping the reins.

Laurens laughs out his answer, forgetting his bitterness completely, “I consider it a promotion. I will lead the first black battalion. Aaron, our dream!”

“Our dream?” Burr repeats numbly. His lip quivers as he loses control of his expression. Their dream? Sure, deep in the dark Laurens whispered his plans. Burr would whisper back tempered encouragements. Did Laurens consider his dream thus shared? Did Burr matter to the flighty Lieutenant after all that had come between?

Laurens ignores him though, “I am chasing what I want, Aaron. I at last have my letter of introduction to President John Jay, written by Alexander and approved by the General. I’m leaving today. Freedom should wait no longer!” He lets out another happy shout.

“You’ll wind up dead.” Burr regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. They are said in fear and worry, but come out harsh. _They'll kill you!_ _Don't go!_ But Burr doesn't say those words and Laurens doesn't hear them.

Laurens face hardens and he remembers who he is talking to. He kicks Burr’s hand off the reins. Without another word, he rides away. 

Burr’s heart, cold and locked as it is, breaks a little more.


	10. Stale Intelligences

_May 1779, Middlebrook Encampment_

On a bright May morning, Washington wraps his arms around Hamilton’s frame as the aide sorts through the latest packet of letters. Hamilton’s body responds before his mind can, leaning back and sighing. It’s rare that the War Room is so empty. They both can’t resist taking advantage of this privacy.

“How can we win this war, Alex?” Washington breathes into Hamilton’s hair, uncharacteristically curled at his shoulders in ringlets instead of in its usual tight ponytail. The General lifts one hand to comb through it as the other remains iron-latched to Hamilton’s chest. 

“How do you catch a cloud and pin it down? How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand? Sir, I almost think we can better answer such questions than that of this war.” Hamilton’s voice is level and calming. Washington appreciates that.

“Tallmadge gave me a report this morning. The British have been capturing our supplies on the Elizabeth. They burned two ships before our guards even rang the alarm. The campaign has begun, Alexander.” A British expedition under Maj. Gen. Edward Mathew had also raided southeast Virginia, they learned in a May 3rd letter. The damned Tory bastards continued to gain ground and destroy precious, precious supplies.

“Sir,” Hamilton starts, one hand rubbing at Washington’s elbow, “Tallmadge is not bringing you intelligence. This is news of actions past, not of plans in the future or even the present. This spy ring gives nothing.” He kisses Washington’s hand, “If we are still calling the farce in Manhattan a spy ring, that is.”

Washington plants a kiss into Hamilton hair, “The ring is still new, our Mr. Culper still forging his sources.”

“They’ve had the whole of Spring. You’ve been personally imposing this need upon Tallmadge. He is deficient.”

“You’ve a sour mood this morning, even before this news. We have some intelligence, you know.”

Hamilton twists in his chair, gazes up into Washington’s face. More wrinkles have formed, Hamilton swears, since he retired last night. Though really, by the time Hamilton had translated the last of the French correspondence, it was nearly morning. And now, though midday threatened, they both were already hours into their day. 

No wonder they were pessimistic about the war. They themselves were not the picture of strength this morning.

Hamilton tips his head up for another kiss, his tongue licking at the General’s lower lip. The General growled and gripped again at Hamilton. Oh, if he could just use his strength now and bend Hamilton over this table, just like he had….well over a year ago now. 

Washington could count on one hand the number of times they actually have been so alone to be so intimate. If only they were both foot soldiers anonymous in the camps. Kisses could be sneaked, embraces more tricky but still more easily done than...no, Washington must stop or his thoughts would reveal themselves quite prominently through his tight trousers.

Hamilton hardly would have noticed, his quick mind already had jumped to the next task, “Will you supervise the drills today? Burr is running a new one. Too many angles and backsteps, judging from those damned notes I read. And hardly approved, mind you, sir.” So many strikes and lines that Hamilton could hardly find where the positions were on the paper.

Washington shook his head. “No, show me the Highlands maps once more. I need...to check.”

Hamilton moved over to the fifth pile in, three rows up, in his stacks of maps on the table. Washington relied on Hamilton’s knowing every detail of the war, of their allies, their supplies, their maps and letters, and, most importantly, the positions of their troops.

The troops did not realize just how much they relied on Hamilton’s brain to keep them from their deaths.

If Hamilton did his job correctly, they never would realize it.

But then Washington’s lips curve into a smile, “My dear Alexander, you are not impressed by Benjamin Tallmadge?” 

(Obviously.)

“Obviously. He’s incompetent.” Alexander responds. 

Washington’s eyes sparkle, “We must invite the Major to supper tonight then. As I have said before, my dear, I must have unity in my army.” He giggles - actually _giggles_ \- and presses a final kiss to Hamilton’s lips. 

Then, in a blink, he was again The General. “Hamilton, a map of the Hudson?” And seriousness descended on the room.

\---

The dinner went as well as Hamilton imagined. And Hamilton had no grand ideas of unity or even comradery. Of course, it was not just the three of them. Martha Washington, who had remained with the army since news of attacks in Virginia reached their ears, with several of the other aides and high ranking gentlemen were present. 

Alexander did not know where his ire for Major Tallmadge originated from. Tallmadge came from a small farming community and only earned his position through hard work and a desperation to protect their army. He had faced off against the Queen’s Rangers even, those monsters.

But whenever Major Tallmadge comes into the War Room, always immaculate and smirking, Hamilton’s chest tightens and...something like disgust entered his whole body. The General speaks at length with the Major and the disgust would grow to such a level that Hamilton found some errand to bring him away from the room.

Now, the Major is still disgustingly polite and looks at the General with a boyish, adoring smile. The General indulges the boy with one of his own smiles. 

“You come from New York, Mr. Tallmadge?” Mrs. Washington inquires.

Tallmadge smiles at her, “From a small farming village named Setauket, madam. My family is of a religious stock, my father is a Reverend.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes. Of course he is literally of _holy_ origins. 

“Our Colonel Tilghman is of a farming stock, aren’t you?” Mrs. Washington joins the shy aide into the conversation. It goes on with crops and lands and other boring details of family ties and relatives. Besides, Tilghman is hardly _farming stock_. Hamilton admires the man, but the origins as an educated son of a plantation owner who never touched a seed in his life is hardly humble.

Hamilton realizes silence has descended upon the table. His name has been said, he thinks.

Mrs. Washington comes to his aid, “Oh, Major Tallmadge, our dear Colonel Hamilton is a man of King’s College and a writer before.” She answers for him.

Ah, so they asked about his own origin story. Hamilton thinks he has never divulged it to the present company. Laurens knows, as does Burr and Lafayette and even Mulligan. But the General, though he likely knows something of it, has never heard the story from Hamilton’s own mouth.

But Tallmadge, maybe out of politeness or just curiosity (or cunning, Hamilton’s mind adds), continues on his path, “But before the famous speeches and writings and when the even more famous Alexander Hamilton protected a loyalist at King’s College from a patriot mob.” Ah, that old scandal again. “Where is your family from, Mr. Hamilton?”

Silence again. Familiar shame fills his person and the color rushes to his face. He flicks his eyes over to Washington, who responds with a raise of his own brows.

“Well?” No mercy then from even his lover.

All eyes are on him now.

Hamilton clears his throat, “My father..er well, my mother...no, wait.” He stutters into silence.

“Alexander,” Mrs. Washington’s voice is soft. If Alexander’s mind was not so muddled, he might have grabbed onto her kindness like a rope. He might have asked her about her childhood. But his worst nightmare was coming true now. He is exposed now.

“I was born in a place called Charlestown, in the West Indies. My father was of Scottish origin. He left when I was a boy. My mother...she died when I was twelve. I lived briefly with a cousin until...I worked for a trading charter for a time. I left to attend school in New York after a Hurricane destroyed the town.”

Tallmadge, goddamn him, hit on the point, “A self-made man then? I commend you, sir.”

Hamilton stares at the table, “I hardly had a choice, sir.”

Tench, who had never heard the story, is intrigued, “Alexander, my goodness, I never knew! And your mother’s family then? Your father is a Scotsman -and gods does that explain a lot! - but your mother?”

“I think I am quite finished, thank you.” Hamilton can’t breathe. A storm is brewing in his chest. It threatens to spill out and destroy all that Hamilton has fought so carefully for.

He rises from the table, without permission, and rushes out into the evening air.

\---

Hamilton keeps walking until he reaches the far end of camp and keeps going. A line of trees beckon him and he spends some time weaving through them. His breathing eventually evens and the sweat on his nape of his neck chills him.

“Alexander?” A voice jump starts his heart once more.

Aaron Burr steps out from the shadows of the trees. Hamilton is really quite lucky the moon is so bright tonight as he steps out with not even a flint to strike up a fire to light his way. As it is, Burr’s figure is all darkness and shadows in the forest.

“Mr. Burr, sir, you frightened me.” Alexander confesses.

“I did not see a way that I would not frighten you. Dark forest and all. Alexander, what in the devil are you doing out here?” 

“I could ask you the same.”

Burr rolls his eyes impressively, “I _followed you._ Naturally. You can’t just walk into a dark forest alone. And if you do then I guess it’s natural that I would follow. Naturally.” He cuts himself off abruptly. _Fool_.

Alexander makes a mental note that Burr is acting strange. His words are usually better chosen, his phrasing clean and precise.

“Are you alright?” Hamilton asks. 

“I believe you still have to answer my question, sir.” Burr purses his lips and steps to grab Alexander’s arm. He entwines their arms, to keep Alexander close but also to make sure the idiot is _warm_. Yes, only to make sure Alexander is warm.

They begin walking.

Alexander leans into Burr and rested his heavy head on Burr’s shoulder, “Oh, Burr. That damned Tallmadge. Asking about my family and...and...it went awful. It’s all ruined.”

Burr chuckles, “You are melodramatic, Alexander, to be sure. I’m positive it can’t be ruined. At least not all of it.” He nudges Alexander’s side. Alexander returns the nudge with a nuzzle. He is affectionate with Burr, he can’t help it. Even after their squabbles and ambitions, Burr was a crucial part of Hamilton’s introduction into New York society and his earliest sexual experiences. Such a bond can’t be broken.

“All of it, I will need to resign from the army.” Hamilton’s mood lifts while thinking about Burr and their history. He’s teasing now and feels better for it.

Burr laughs, “Sweet Jesus.” He lays a kiss on Alexander’s temple. 

“Alexander, you know you are not responsible for your childhood.” Burr begins his lecture. He had thought that Hamilton had already learned this but it appears not.

\---

_Burr kisses away a salty tear from Alex’s cheek. The younger man tries to turn away but Burr’s kisses follow him. Alex even tries to push Burr away but is outmatched in strength._

_“Stop fighting, Alexander. You promised to listen.”_

_“Promises made under those conditions are hardly valid.”_

_“_ Alexander _.”_

 _“Fine.”_ _  
_ _“You can’t blame yourself for your mother’s choices, or your father’s abandonment, or even your own birth. You can only grow from it. Trust me, I know.”_

_Hamilton stares into his eyes, maybe even into his very soul. “I know you know, Burr. You might be the only one who does.”_

_\---_

“I can still have shame for it.”

“Alexander, we are in an army of misfits and upstarts. We’ve lost so many battles that shame is a tired sort of thing now. What really is the matter here?”

Alexander lifts his head to look at Burr. They are getting closer to the camp now and he can almost see Headquarters.

“Aaron, I am not worthy of him.” Alexander rarely uses anyone’s given name, much less Burr’s. This is serious then, oh dear. "I see men like Tallmadge, who come from solid backgrounds and have wiles enough to draw his attention...The General has been trusting and relying on him for this ridiculous spy ring Now he makes excuses for his pure ineptness. You know the General hates failure but it seems Major Tallmadge cannot fail and...what does that mean?" Hamilton has too much pride to add that Tallmadge also looks so dashing in his uniform, which doesn't help the situation.

Burr drops their arms and stops them. He looks Alexander in the eye and hopes his message might at last get through. “Alex, I am not in the business of flattering wounded prides, so listen carefully. You are worthy. Clever and spirited and loyal. The General worships you. I treasure you.”

Burr doesn’t mean to let the last bit slip, or he means to indicate he treasures “ _your friendship_.” But it stops at the simple “ _you”_ and Burr can’t take it back. He’s not sure that he wants to. Hamilton’s eyes are so bright in the darkness that they might reflect the moon itself in spite of its position behind them.

Hamilton, starved for love and approval in his childhood, has difficulty following that firm line between friend and lover. His own affectionate words sometimes get them confused. His letters to even Laurens, who has his most brotherly love, do sometimes read as though from a lover. If he wasn’t devoted to Washington as he is, he would lean forward and capture Burr’s enticing lips, so touching are Burr's words.

“Oh, dear friend, I treasure you as well.” Alexander responds and pulls Burr into a firm hug. Burr breathes in a ragged breath. 

Then they make the slow walk back to Headquarters.

\--

The dinner table will be empty now. Hamilton intends to make his way to the aides room with a heavy heart. In hindsight, he had worsened the situation by fleeing the table. By not changing the subject or embracing his past head on, he only draws more attention to it. And reveals his shame.

“Alexander.” Washington is in the War Room and interrupts Hamilton’s reverie. He is sitting at the large table, his head resting in one hand while the other holds up a letter to the candlelight.

Reluctantly, Hamilton enters the room.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sit down.” 

"Yes, sir."

Hamilton can spot an order when he hears one and he lowers himself into the nearest seat, unaware of whose desk he has sat at. Washington is before him in three quick strides. He goes on his knees and grabs Alexander’s face. The kiss is bruising.

Washington stares at him, “I am sorry. About the dinner. I knew it might upset you. I shouldn’t toy with you like that.” He caresses Hamilton’s knee without going further.

Hamilton sighs, “I shouldn’t have left like that. It was rude. Tallmadge didn’t upset me. I’m fine.” He lies.

“Alexander?”

“I’m fine. Can we go over the reports now? And get Tench in here, please? Or would you like the sunrise to replace the candlelight, sir?”

Washington chuckles and pulls himself up onto one knee, “This isn’t over, Alexander. I expect to hear more of your childhood. Someday.”

And Alexander wonders that the General has gone easy on him. In truth, he should have shared the information long ago. Washington has thrown in little hints to it these last months. The reports are simply another diversion. And, one day Washington's patience will finally break. Why not make someday come right now?

"I was born out of wedlock." Hamilton starts. Washington, comically, drops back onto both knees. 

"Oh, I see."

It all spills out. 

"My mother's first husband, I suppose only husband, Lavien mistreated her. She ran away and lived briefly with my father, James Hamilton. I am named after his father. We were...very poor, sir. My father drank both my mother's wages and his own. He left when I was ten. You know, some on the island said that he wasn't even my father but it still hurt, you know, when he left. My mother got yellow fever when I was twelve. I was sick and...she was holding me. She went quick. Lavien took everything she left behind. Besides me and my brother. My cousin took us in...My cousin committed suicide. My brother and I were separated. I clerked on the trading charter to survive....It wasn't an easy childhood, sir. Nor happy. I don't like to discuss it."

Alexander gathers his courage to look into the General's eyes. He can predict the pity, there's always pity after this story, but he doesn't expect the love that shines through. 

"Oh, Alexander." Washington reaches out to him. Hamilton tumbles from the chair into the outstretched arms. They sit there, tangled together, both breathing heavily with their emotions, for a long time.

\---

Clinton returns to New York in late May to gather more troops. He now is 8,000 strong - including Hessians, Loyalists, and British soldiers. The forces seize King's Ferry and its corresponding landing sites on the banks of the Hudson River. One of the sites, Stony Point, had been defended by only 40 Americans. The Patriots set fire to the unfinished fort as they escape the British forces. Clinton takes Fort Lafayette nearly unopposed.

Washington rips the letter in half when he receives this news.

It is vital that they maintain control of the Hudson. Their supply line goes through there to New England. If the British choke off their resources they'll be done before the summer is out.

The Highlands. Washington orders three divisions to force-march to the Hudson Highlands. He prepares to leave with them at the beginning of June. Mrs. Washington, according to custom, prepares the march home just as the campaign begins. 

And so war kicks up again. Hamilton writes like a madman, organizing information and strategies. He pens writes faster than it can lay the ink down. Maps litter the floor and aides walk around them as if they were newborn kittens napping. No one dares risk the General's temper.

"One battle, Alexander, all we need is one decisive battle." Washington mumbles one night as the aides pack up the insurmountable piles of paper. Gibbs once joked that they should built their next fort with the useless letters these generals send. Hamilton added that Tallmadge's correspondences should be their cannon fodder. It made him feel better, and just a little childish.

Hamilton chanced his audacity to lean into the General's side, "And this could be the one?" He asks. Washington smiles and wraps an arm around Hamilton's shoulders.

"My boy," Washington mouths in his ear, leaning in closely. They still fear spies. "We are about to enter a very interesting crisis." 

Washington departs north for the Hudson Highlands on June 3, 1779. 

Alexander Hamilton rides at his side. 


	11. Another Campaign (Part 1)

_June 1779_

_The Continental Defensive on the Hudson_

Washington organizes the Continental divisions in defensive positions around West Point, on both sides of the Hudson. This, thankfully, re-establishes the supply line to New England. 

They lay out their camp efficiently and quickly. Hamilton himself collects and commands the guard that stands outside Washington’s tent at all times. Even when the General is making rounds in the camps, the guards remain.

Hamilton follows his General like a shadow. And goes to Washington's tent at night. Really, Hamilton _stays_ in the tent at night as he is nearly always at his desk at the front of Washington's large tent. When the last petitioner leaves and the tent flap closes behind them, the couple falls onto the bed rolls. They lay under thin blankets together and comfort away the stressful day. The heat is oppressive but the blanket provides them with some dignity should anyone enter the tent without warning.

Hands wander under the covers. 

“Tell me again.” Hamilton demands as he strokes tense thighs.

Washington groans, “Oh, my own love, my only love, dear god, Alex, have mercy!”

Alexander gives him a rough, unkind squeeze and Washington yelps. He looks at Washington expectantly.

" _George_."

The General melts. “I love you. God, you know I love you." He pushes himself down Hamilton's chest. He kisses the ragged scar on Hamilton's lower belly with as much love as he can muster. "Now, if you will let me put my mouth to better use, boy.” 

The Lieutenant grins wickedly and folds his arms behind his head.

These intimate nights are stolen pleasures in an already stressful campaign. This time together could be foolish and reckless. The guards know - of course they know - and probably the other aides, the secretaries, most the generals...

But it seems like it’s better now. At least compared to last summer. The winks in the morning are friendly and respect doesn’t wane. Hamilton can’t help but smile when the guards give a polite, informal warning in loud conversation each morning that it is _finally_ _sunrise_ and the _day should start soon_.

The rumors don’t swirl like before. Hamilton needs to remind himself that this love affair has been nearly public knowledge for a year, and had been brewing for longer. Gossip loses its venom after a time. But he keeps his weapon on his person at all times, just in case. He still has nightmares of blood soaked papers and nooses. No, his weapon stays close at hand. He dares not leave it behind.

And, anyway, there’s a war to fight.

Love is not the only battlefield their attentions are drawn to.

\---

But the Continental army is not drawn into battle. The forces remain close to the Hudson and together.

Clinton launches raids on the Connecticut coast. New Haven. Fairfield. Norwalk. It’s clearly a trap, and not even a well laid one. The bulk of the British army is still in Southeastern New York. If Washington moves toward Connecticut, that bulk will slaughter them. 

\----

 _July 1779_

Tallmadge delivers.

The bastard, of course he does.

Intelligence reveals that Stony Point is heavily fortified with 600 soldiers and 16 cannon. But there's a weakness. Tallmadge brings the report himself. Grinning, Washington pulls the major away to the side, guiding him by the elbow. That feeling of disgust rises in Hamilton once more.

“Hamilton, fetch General Wayne. Now.” Washington calls over. He ducks his head again to whisper with Tallmadge.

Now, Hamilton understands his position as right hand man. To any other aide, a direct command from Washington is high praise. Hamilton receives them as his due, usually. But this one, in front of Tallmadge, feels...belittling. He feels this though he knows in the logical part of his brain that it is no different than any other command.

But Hamilton presses that feeling back down and completes his task. When he returns, with Wayne in tow, Washington directs him to record Tallmadge’s report in full. 

And, though in a tent with nearly a dozen others, Tallmadge and Hamilton are almost alone for the first time. The report is recorded, marked, and filed away with the utmost efficiency. Hamilton hardly lets the Major complete a sentence, fills in names where he knows them to be true without confirming with the Major. 

It’s rude.

“Thank you for your assistance, Colonel.” Tallmadge grits out when Hamilton turns back to the much more important Spanish correspondences.

“Oh, and you’re relieved back to your duties, _Major_.” Hamilton smirks and pretends to engross himself in the translation. He is determined to become so expert in Spanish as he is in French that the current aide promoted to translate will be unnecessary. 

“I don’t require your permission to retire, Mr. Hamilton.” Tallmadge hisses at him, “I wait for the General’s orders. He gives commands, not you. You have not been promoted, to my knowledge.”

Hamilton raises his eyebrows at that, “Oh, I presumed that since you have expended your limited use to the General that you would slink back to your _covert_ operations.” He can’t help another smirk. “And promotions serve purposes for only the vain. Those of us regularly working have other - more important - business to attend to, _Major_.”

They have moved so close together they are nearly chest to chest.

“Mind your tongue, _Colonel_. You forget yourself.”

“I know exactly what _my_ position is, _Major_. Honor us all by doing yours.”

“Oh, we all know your _position…_ ”

Hamilton snaps. 

He did not rebel against the rumors when they were fresh last summer. He did not seek the attackers that broke his nose, nor even demand revenge on the plot to end his life. (He is smart enough to know a simple foot soldier alone cannot easily gain access to Headquarters.) He even glorifies nowadays in his status as Washington’s nearly acknowledged lover. 

But _Tallmadge_ (that bastard) does not get to sneer at his love affair.

Hamilton’s fist crashes into Tallmadge’s jaw. A beat later, he feels a responding blow to his left eye. He lunges at the bastard and they tumble into the table, sending papers flying.

Washington interrupts with force - literally grabbing the two men by their collars and throwing them from the tent. 

In his time in Washington’s service, Hamilton has never seen the General so angry. He’s literally red. And shouting. Threatening court martials, whippings, relief from their duties, replacements. A crowd gathers. No one laughs. The upbraiding of two crucial figures in the army is nothing short of mortifying.

Tallmadge has the good grace to look away.

Hamilton though, feeling wronged, has the gall to look his lover in the eyes as he is scolded. He doesn’t hear the words coming from Washington’s mouth. Can only focus on that rage. Feel that fire as it is directed at him. 

Then there is awful silence. 

Tallmadge mumbles an apology to Hamilton. Declares a louder one to the General. Then holds out a hand of truce to Hamilton.

Without a word, Hamilton walks away.

\---

He enters Burr's tent in a flurry of emotions. It is spacious enough, given Burr's rank as Captain, so Alexander paces some to release some energy. Burr isn't here, of course. He will be at his duties. But no one comes for Alexander so he eventually makes himself comfortable on the small cot. Burr won't mind. 

It gives his mind time to whirl down. 

This feeling in his gut makes him sick. He knows he should not have punched Tallmadge but can't help thinking he is still right for doing so. That he _needed_ to do so. Washington's honor needed him to do so. 

Which is stupid. Tallmadge hadn't said a word against Washington. In truth, he hardly said a word against Hamilton until he was baited to do so. And Hamilton threw the first punch.

But this feeling! What is this feeling, so sudden and new? Hamilton felt it the moment he laid eyes on Tallmadge. His pulse rushes, his head reels, his face flushes....what is this feeling?

Hamilton remembers back to December, when his love affair had begun anew. The General sitting at his bedside promising him forever. And Hamilton remembers his own hesitation. The question he asked himself, _would he accept the General's love again when he had seen it taken away before? Could he forgive the General?_

Would that love be taken away again, now that Alexander had offended (and assaulted) another officer?

The questions whirled all over again and he put his head in his hands.

Burr announces his presence with a gentle scoff. He tosses off his sweat stained shirt. He wipes himself down with dry rag and takes the clean shirt Alexander holds out to him.

Burr, of course, has heard about the scrabble between Tallmadge and Hamilton. He is surprised that any one with a brain would let those two speak without a chaperone. It is clear, to Burr at least, that the two are like oil and water. Given the circumstances, that is. Burr knows Alexander, much like he knows his own mind. And he knows exactly what is wrong.

"Are you alright?" Burr sees that quite the shiner has marred Hamilton's pretty features. 

"I'm fine, sir." Even though he is very much not fine.

"You are not fine."

"No." He admits. "Can I stay here tonight? I can't bear to go back among the aides after this and the General..."

"I've never marked you for a coward, Alexander."

Alexander jumps up to leave in a huff. Burr puts a hand to his chest and leads his back to the little cot. 

"Stay here, Alexander. My God. What did he say?" Burr picks up one of Alexander's hands and begins to stroke it with his thumb. Alexander feels an urge to put his head in Burr's lap and cry like a child. He resists that urge, at least.

"He insulted my _position_. The old taunt. That bastard."

"You provoked him though?"

"No."

" _Alexander_..."

"You weren't there. He started it. Lazy bastard."

Burr smiles, "Alexander, should we talk about the root of the issue - your jealousy of Ben Tallmadge?" He asks calmly.

Alexander risks whiplash, he turns to look at Burr so quickly. _Jealousy._ Alexander Hamilton, Lieutenant Colonel, senior-most aide George Washington himself. Jealous of Major Benjamin Tallmadge. Laughable. Incredible. Unbeliev-

Oh.

That's embarrassing

Alexander thinks of that disgust that fills his gut when Tallmadge enters the room. His desire to toss the handsome man out of any room Washington is in. His cruel words regarding Tallmadge's abilities, which, in truth, are not based in too many facts. That disgust might be...jealousy. 

"Oh."

"I thought so. You're too pig-headed to see what's right in front of you sometimes, Alexander." Burr rubs his chin and smiles at him once more. Alexander admires Burr then. For his kindness, his patience. He appraises the healthy glow of a man with regular exercise. Maybe...no. Stay out of the past, Hamilton.

"I've made a mistake, I think."

"Then fix it, Alexander. And get out of my bed. I'm exhausted and still have more drills to run this afternoon. Give a man some peace during this war."

\---

Washington finds himself with a moment to think early that same afternoon. He has let Tallmadge off with a warning. The boy made his apologies fervently enough and God knows Washington can't have his Director of Intelligence dismissed after such a valuable report. But what to do with Hamilton. To ignore the incident would be favoritism. A public apology would likely suffice, if Tallmadge would accept. (But after Alexander's public rejection of Tallmadge's apology, Washington will not force Tallmadge to accept Alexander's).

Washington feels this is all his fault.

He knows Alexander holds a grudge against him. For the lack of promotion after well over a year of hard work. No increase in pay. No hope of advancement anytime in the future. And the talented, young Mr. Tallmadge, whose connections in the area of intelligence are invaluable, will undoubtedly rise and rise in this war. Of course, Alexander is jealous of the man.

Washington is just surprised by how much.

Washington knows how hot-headed Alexander can be. Hell, they've fought viciously enough in their time together that Alexander should have been court martialed thrice over for disobedience. But Washington has made the mistake of falling head over heels in love with his young lieutenant. He'll forgive him once more. He will always forgive his Alexander. 

Alexander brings some light into this war. His emphatic patriotic writings, to his quick wit, and those gentle fingers. But Alexander is so young. Only 22 years old, despite his intelligence and skills making him appear so much older. The passions of war, a young man's ambition, and now an illicit love affair growing stronger and more public is heady for any man, much less Alexander Hamilton. Washington asks himself again, _should I have waited_? 

What a mess, a perfect mess.

\---

Hamilton hopes to sneak back to his duties, unseen and unheard. The guards let him in with no issue, though Hamilton can sense their own apprehension at his presence. Papers are again neatly stacked on the tables. Gibbs turns to him and groans dramatically.

"Oh, he just settled down, Ham. Can't you disappear at least until supper?" He places a hand over his eyes for effect.

Hamilton gives his shoulder a good-natured shove in response.

Harrison fixes his expression into mock surprise, "A _second_ assault! In one day! For shame!"

Hamilton rolls his eyes, "Where is he then?"

"Still strategizing with Wayne somewhere. Or, well, he has continued the strategizing that was interrupted during your tussle. You know, your paper system is overly complicated, my friend. it took me an hour to find a place for a _letter_. And I'm sure you'll tell me it's been misplaced anyway." 

And Hamilton returns to his duties, uninterrupted and without reprimand.

For now. 

\---

Washington delivers the 'punishment' in front of the other aides later that evening:

1\. Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton must publicly apologize to Major Benjamin Tallmadge. 

2\. Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton must serve Major Benjamin Tallmadge as his personal secretary for two weeks.

Hamilton wonders if it's too late to demand a court martial instead.


	12. Another Campaign (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. A little too kumbaya for my tastes but w/e. Basically a set up for Chapter 13, when things really get fun.

On the moonless night of July 15th, General Anthony Wayne and his elite corps of Light Infantry attack Stony Point. They seize the post in a bayonet assault, killing over 100 British soldiers and making another 500 prisoners. 

Clinton ceases his Connecticut raids to recapture the post.

The patriots evacuate on July 18th in anticipation of an assault. 

It is a spectacular victory, however small, and shifts the winds of the war. Washington is on the attack now.

\---

Hamilton can grit his way through most tasks. He has spent his life doing the jobs that are necessary to survive. This includes being the private secretary to a bumbling, disorganized idiot. Even when he feels the real job is being the maid to a bumbling, disorganized idiot.

Tallmadge, for his part, is shocked by the General’s orders and does not seem pleased. It seems like Hamilton’s punishment has turned far more into his own.

Hamilton examines the messy, overstuffed tent. Tallmadge informs him that he has people working for him but, as far as Alexander can see, only one man could possibly fit in this tent at any given time with all the clutter and he doesn’t see any others bothering to come around.

“Do you call this a desk?” 

A table in the middle is filled - overflowing - with papers and wooden tablets and ripped clothes.

“And what else would it be?”

Hamilton picks up a handful of tiny curls of paper, he can see little notes on them. Likely small to be slipped into hollowed out foodstuffs or sewn into pockets. But why are they out in the open now?

“If you want to have a secret operation, don’t leave your means out for public viewing.” Hamilton begins piling the mess into a gunny sack.

“Be careful!” Tallmadge grabs up a glass magnifier that has found its way to the edge of the table.

Hamilton ignores him. He spends the bulk of the morning sorting through papers, and the afternoon stringing piles together and labeling them. A few people drop by with bags of...something that crowd the entryway to the tent. Hamilton is impressed by the volume of paperwork coming through the door.

“All intelligence from our spies comes through me first.” Tallmadge informs him. “Each page of my reports represents dozens of messages.”

Impressive.

But not true. Some spies report directly to the General. Mulligan, for example. Hamilton keeps this secret to himself.

Hamilton has heard similar grumblings from Harrison, who is technically Washington’s secretary. Hamilton himself is familiar with the task of translating countless French letters and picking out the more important lines to report to the general.

“How is your little spy ring coming along?” Hamilton asks near the end of the first day of his punishment. He aches to be back with Washington and his staff. He knows there was to be an attack last night and yearns for the report. He misses being in the center of the war, even if it’s been only a day. It has been a long while since he merely sorted papers and it tires him. 

Tallmadge has flinted in and out of the tent all day. Hamilton plans to set a guard at the tent once his punishment is up. If so many valuable papers are in here, with such valuable information, then a guard is crucial. He’s sure Washington will approve the order. Might even reprimand Tallmadge for being such an unorganized idiot…

Tallmadge, who had been admiring that he could see the surface of his table for the first time in weeks, startles and sputters “That’s classified.”

“Sure.” Hamilton rolls his eyes.

“And how are our ambassadors to France and Britain in their negotiations to end this war?” Tallmadge fires back.

“Touché.”

Well, one point to Tallmadge. 

“You know that he’ll take you back before the week is up, right?”

They both know who _he_ is.

“The term of punishment is two weeks, Tallmadge.”

“I _know_ that. But he values you too much to let you go for a day. I’ll be surprised if he even lets you come back here tomorrow.” Tallmadge pushes a few blond locks out of his face. “Not that I would turn away any help. My heavens, this place is amazing!”

Hamilton sits back on his heels, “The General is a stubborn man.” He explains. He doesn’t know why he is engaging in a conversation about the General. But Tallmadge, when he isn’t being an idiot, exudes an air of earnestness that even Alexander Hamilton is not immune to.

Tallmadge grins, “Oh, to be sure, sir. But he is different with you, you know.” He sits down next to Hamilton, his legs spread out wide like he is a boy resting from play. Hamilton is struck again by just how _boyish_ Tallmadge is. Dimples. A sort of solid lankiness. If Tallmadge wasn’t such a rival for Washington’s affections at this point, Hamilton could have seen them being friends.

“Different?” Which is not a fair question for Alexander to ask.

It’s Tallmadge’s turn to roll his eyes. “Don’t be coy. And I _am_ sorry for my words to you yesterday. Even if you won’t accept my apologies. I am not a bigot, nor am I in a place to judge where others find comfort in war. I just don’t understand why you hate me.” He tugs at the tops of his boots.

Hamilton blinks.

And has the good grace to feel embarrassed.

“I don’t _hate_ you.” 

“You know, Colonel Burr came to see me yesterday. Never met the man before in my life. And he warned me about you.” Tallmadge widens his eyes. “Says that you will do what it takes to survive. Odd man.”

Hamilton feels some annoyance at that. Burr seems to put his opinions where they clearly don't belong, where it concerns Hamilton at least. Just like last year with Lee’s rumor campaign.

“I don’t hate you. I just...I care about the General.”

“I’m not trying to take your place, you know.” Tallmadge continues playing with his bootstraps, “I have no ambition to be an aide or a secretary. I like intelligence. It keeps me close to my friends, even if it puts us all in danger. And,” He softens his voice, “I admire you, Hamilton. You are exactly the kind of man I think America needs. That the General needs.”

“Well, thank you.” Hamilton ducks his head. This conversation is awkward and he is beginning to feel like a child himself.

“And I am not of _that_ persuasion, just so you know.” Tallmadge speaks this so quickly and quietly that Hamilton almost doesn’t understand him. “This is no love triangle... you know, just so you know.”

Oh.

“Well.” And, for once, Alexander Hamilton can’t think of a single thing to say. They complete the organization in amiable silence.

And, you know, Benjamin Tallmadge isn’t such a bastard after all.

\---

Hamilton learns of the attack on Stony Point at supper, as he multitasks by shoving food into his mouth and looking for his lover. Washington has been absent from the tent since he arrived back. The other aides ease his bruised ego by bemoaning the General's bad mood. ("Lift his spirits tonight, Ham!" Gibbs elbows Hamilton and winks bawdily). Hamilton feels some guilt in his chest. He knows it's his fault he is stuck with Tallmadge. He knows that the General relies on Hamilton to expedite tasks and organize his information.

Washington does not return until well into the night. Hamilton half considers returning to the aide's tent for the second night in a row. He still isn't sure that they _aren't_ quarreling, since they haven't said a word to one another in over 24 hours. But Hamilton won't abandon ship.

When the General does returns, he looks exhausted and harried. He sees Hamilton and feels even more tired. No doubt, the boy will attempt to wile his way out of the punishment. In truth, Washington feels like he will be the one to crack before the first week is up. If only his aides could all be copies of Alexander Hamilton.

"Half days." He compromises, before the negotiations can begin. "Mornings with me. Afternoons with Tallmadge. I need you to lighten the load here. I'm only punishing poor Harrison with you gone."

"Yes, sir."

Washington collapses into a chair. He has a habit of sleeping in his boots and uniform (absent his jacket), in the likely event the camp is attacked. Tonight is no different. He could fall asleep in this chair, just like this, if he wasn't so aware that his back would be destroyed for a week. As if sensing the General's train of thought, Alexander comes up from behind to rub those aching shoulders.

"It won't work." Washington leans back into the massage. 

"I'm just helping my apology along." Hamilton rubs one hand down the General's back, "I fear that I have been disobedient." Washington snorts. Hamilton ignores him. "I confess my jealousy for Mr. Tallmadge." _Aha, one point for Washington_. "But not in the way you think, sir. It's true that I...I am a man of few possessions, sir. I have no titles, no land, my name doesn't even mean much." 

Washington tries to turn around but Hamilton gives his shoulder a hard pinch, "No, please...just stay as you are now. Let me speak. I have nothing to my name. But you. You are the only person who is mine. I can't bear the thought of anyone else loving you. As long as I'm alive, I swear to god..." Hamilton breaks off with a squeak in his voice. He did have a plan to his words, so it's no wonder he rambled on so. One more thing: "I love you."

It had occurred to Hamilton that night that he never has said those words to the General. A vague promise long ago that he _could_ love the General, but never confirmed. All this time, he has made Washington swear his love over and over again, and Hamilton has not returned the favor.

Washington does turn around then. Tears shine in his eyes. He knew already that Alexander loves him but to hear it...the sweetest sound.

He grasps onto something else too, however.

"Alexander, you believed Mr. Tallmadge was my suitor? I'm flattered." He smiles. Hamilton ducks his head. "You are aware that I do not make seducing my soldiers a pastime?" He's jesting now and Hamilton grins with him.

"You are quite the catch, sir." He jokes back. "Any soldier would be glad to capture you. Especially British ones!"

"But _you_ have caught me, Alexander."

"Yes. And I do love you, sir."

"And I do love you too."

\---

At the end of July, Washington convenes a war council to consider their offensive operations. But the senior commanders recommend remaining on the defensive. Most of the generals, by nature, are not risk takers like Washington. It's their men who die if they misstep.

Hamilton hates to admit it, even now that Tallmadge and he have reached some level of comradery, but the Culper Ring is proving fruitful. They receive word that Clinton intends to renew the offensive with reinforcements. But they lack the gunpowder for a major battle. It's a pity the Patriots don’t have the numbers to take them by force. Washington has sent forces South, now that the North is basically at a stalemate.

On August 9, Washington approves a plan for Major Henry Lee to raid Paulus Hook in another bayonet attack. The countless drills Washington had ordered that Spring pay off. Only five of Lee’s troops are killed or wounded.

Washington continues to strike quick through bayonet attacks, then orders quick retreats once they have captured contraband or prisoners.

By mid-August, both sides have their share of minor victories, with a few major defeats at Minisink and Charlestown. Washington does not get the decisive battle he so desires. The British and the Americans play tug of war with their victories. British General Cornwallis relies on Loyalist uprisings in the South. Washington depends on the new Spanish support to hold the American defensive.

In the midst of the chaos that is the American Revolution, suspicions begin to turn to a high ranking, highly respected general in the Continental Army. Tallmadge, given some measure of freedom in his missions, sets his spy ring to investigate. If it proves as fruitful as his intelligence at Stony Point that year, it will change the revolution. 

What he finds will turn the world upside down.


	13. An American Traitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How 'bout that cliff hanger tho?

George Washington is not a trusting man, as a rule.

Hell, he only recently learned that he can’t trust his own feelings after forty some years. The boy sleeping peacefully next to him is proof of that. Not that he regrets that particular betrayal in the least. 

But he is constantly fighting: Congress is against him, his generals are insubordinate, the entirety of the British army would like specifically to see him dead. His own mind races in the night with the anxiety that if only he is trusted to win this war then maybe the Americans should surrender and cut their losses.

There are some he does trust though, he muses as he traces the outline of Hamilton’s jaw with his fingertips. A few select generals, Wayne particularly during the summer of 1779, his wife, his stepson. Alexander.

But, again, Washington is not by nature a trusting man.

And, well, sometimes some men can't be trusted.

\---

Benedict Arnold, nearly the same age as Washington and almost as famous in 1779, is a handsome man. His heroism and courage at Ticonderoga, Lake Champlain, and Saratoga precede him wherever he travels. When soldiers write home to their families, they always mention if they fought with Arnold. A true American hero.

Until he wasn’t.

See, Arnold comes from a good family but he himself is not wealthy. He acts like it though. Enough to put himself deep into debt. He craves promotion, because he deserves one but also for the increase in salary. 

Promotions don’t come.

Injuries are easier to get. He is almost lame with the number of times his leg has been shot or crushed by a horse. He threatens to withdraw from the army. Washington throws him a bone. In the Spring of 1778, Arnold gets appointed the military commander of Philadelphia. While there, he marries his Peggy. 

Peggy is a complicated girl. She fawns over his military stories and then curses the Americans in the same breath. Her family is full of Loyalist sympathizers. They bemoan the loss of the British soldiers and their parties, good wine and dancing. Arnold tries to meet their expectations. And falls deeper in debt.

Then that damnable Joseph Reed brings accusations of profiteering to the Continental Congress (useless bunch of windbags). Who betray their hero once again. Arnold’s court martial originally is set for July 1779 but is postponed to December due to the war. 

It’s a political move, aimed more to disparage Washington by prosecuting his favorite general than to really catch out Arnold. 

Arnold spends some of the winter of 1779 in the Middlebrook encampment but does not get the resounding support he expects from Washington. Instead Arnold witnesses firsthand that he is not the only general that has fallen in for cupid’s arrow in this war.

\---

“Traitors.”

“Politics, Benedict. Only politics. Justice will see you through. Hamilton, more wine, please.” Washington motions for Hamilton to refill both his own glass and Arnold’s. Hamilton, his uniform starched, his hair slicked back, boots shined, looks spectacular. Washington can hardly keep his eyes off the lieutenant. His mind keeps wandering back to the rough embrace they shared not one hour prior to Arnold’s arrival for dinner. 

Hamilton’s hand barely brushes his own as he steadies the glass to pour the wine. It feels like electricity. 

“No, it’s treachery, Your Excellency. Reed is a bastardous traitor. To myself and to the revolution. You’d see if all _at once_ , if only you would _look_.” Arnold corrects him, peeved, “He is a jealous, wicked man. I implore you to come _publicly_ to my defense. After all my service…”

Washington waves Hamilton away from the table when he starts to clear away to dishes. 

“Benedict, my trusted friend, it is because of your service that I am confident that the court will clear you. I myself have seen no evidence of speculation or profiteering. If men wish to destroy your reputation they should come to _me_. I myself hold you in the highest regards.”

“Except when it comes to promotions.”

General Washington’s face darkens, “My dear general, I have given you command of the whole of Philadelphia.” His voice is tense. Lieutenant Hamilton makes a sound like he would interject. Neither general looks at him. It’s a battle of ego.

“You keep me from _battle_ , your Excellency.”

“You need to heal, sir. My dearest general, you are injured, from your great efforts in battle to our war, and your men cannot see weakness especially at this time.” And it is the word _weakness_ that sets Arnold to fire.

“Weakness! Lameness! My men see strength when I ride! They see courage!” He tries to stand abruptly in his passion, but the force on his truly _lame_ leg causes him to topple back. Lieutenant Hamilton, with the speed that only a young man can possess, catches his elbow and guides him back to his chair.

Arnold catches his breath, air expelling loudly from his nostrils.

“I stand by my choice.” General Washington’s voice is hard. “And I need a man I trust in Philadelphia.”

Arnold stares at him. They dissolve into silence. Both sip on their wine. It gives Arnold the opportunity to observe the young Lieutenant Colonel standing upright near him, still observing him with concern and some disdain. Arnold has heard the rumors. Gods, they all have heard. _The whore soldier boy_. And this is the one, right? This _Hamilton_. So young, quite handsome, a pretty little toy for the General. And Washington _has_ glanced at him more than a dozen times in this short dinner...

“Boy, your thoughts?” He asks, gruffly - unkindly - in challenge. But he stares at the General. 

Hamilton’s eyes widen and he glances at the General as well.

Before the young scrap can answer, General Washington does, “General Arnold, with all due respect, I have given my orders.” His words brook no argument. The look on his face is thunderous, his lips set in a thin line and his eyes black as coal.

Arnold barks out a laugh, “And he can have no opinion but yours? Do we not fight for _freedom_? Let your _boy_ speak, heh?” 

The boy looks him in the eye then, bold and cold, “Mr. Arnold, I stand by my commander, sir. As you should, sir.” He is quiet but there is a fire beneath those words. 

A hint of a smile graces General Washington’s features.

Arnold takes a long drink of good wine.

\---

So George Washington has clearly turned to sodomy.

Arnold is a simple man with exquisite tastes. He can’t wrap his mind around the possibility that the General, so respected and masculine, could be so light. The way his eyes followed the dashing young lieutenant Hamilton. He can only imagine (though his Christian mind does not imagine) the _activities_ that Washington engages with his inferiors. And with Mrs. Washington in this very house!

Arnold, old fool that he is, loves _his_ wife entirely. She’s so young, nearly 20 years his junior, so beautiful and makes so much sense. She keeps corresponding with John André, a British lout, and encourages Arnold to do the same.

In March 1779, Arnold purchases his sweet Peggy a mansion, which comes with significant debt. When they _officially_ marry in April, he finds her quite good in bed. Almost _too_ good if he thinks too hard on it. Which he does not, thank you very much. He is a Christian man and she is a good Christian woman.

Revolution is a facade. He realizes that late one night as his sweet Peggy is sleeping peacefully on his chest. The 13 states can kiss his ass for all the blood and dead muscle he has given to them. 

Arnold concludes that the American experiment has failed before it begins. Sinful men like Washington in power, Congress mucking up governing before it begins, and good men like Arnold ground into the dust.

Arnold is a loyal man. So he just changes who he is loyal to.

\---

_Summer 1779_

“Oh, for shame!” Peggy exclaims, laying herself out luxuriously on their bed. She has long since moved past any respect she might have had for the Continental Army. All those glittering parties with British gentlemen replaced by suppers with boisterous, uncouth patriots...She truly is not surprised by her husband’s words. “You cannot possibly support this, my love?”

Arnold did not intend to talk to Peggy, so sweet and innocent, about Washington’s proclivities. She is so delicate in her health and hysterias.

“I am a Christian man, wife.”

She rolls onto her stomach, “You will not support this.” Her tone is firm. “Let me write to my old friend, Monsieur André. He-”

“No!” Arnold does not like to hear about Peggy’s old _friends_. 

She pouts. 

He restarts. “I will make inquiries, my dear, but it could be that your British friends have no interest in a general as successful as I have been for the patriots.”

“The _scoundrels_.” She corrects him. “The sinful devils that burn down cities as they run away like cowards. And refuse to acknowledge their betters. Like you, husband.” She adds in the last bit as an afterthought. In the short time they are married, she learns to flatter her husband to meet her own ends. “The British know how to reward a gentleman for his actions on the field, instead of in a general’s bed. My dear, I am hardly surprised that you are not promoted if _that_ is the sort of service that villain Washington requires.”

She makes a good point.

Turning traitor could be extremely lucrative. And cleanse his soul of being complicit in Washington’s sins.

His Peggy deserves the finer things. He deserves payment for his damned leg at least. Washington deserves exactly what’s coming to him.

He sends a letter to Clinton, by way of a Loyalist merchant. Though for the life of him he never will understand why, but John André, his wife’s old _friend_ , responds. Peggy eagerly loops herself into their communications. Too eagerly.

Nevermind that, she is Arnold’s wife, not André's.

By July 1779, Arnold is providing the British with troop locations, supply numbers, and, most especially, information on West Point and defenses on the Hudson. All the while, Arnold tries to negotiate his price, to little end. As it turns out, neither Congress nor the British can meet the price Arnold holds himself at.

\---

Whatever the value Clinton finds in Arnold’s information, it does not help him win the War that year. October 1779, when negotiations break down between Arnold and the British, Clinton’s campaign ends. Nearly 1,000 British soldiers were dead, wounded, or held captive. Clinton gained nothing that Summer of 1779. So the British turn to a more Southern Strategy.

\---

It comes from Peggy's brain in the end. Arnold wraps it with his own cunning and comes up with a plan. 

She says it to him one night as he complains about Washington. He would be so much more valuable to the British if only Washington would send him a little more information. The missives are short these days. Arnold can hardly be surprised. He no longer is a general within that small circle of confidence. Washington has had too many betrayals to send information to those on the edge of the war. Won't risk a letter being intercepted. Arnold doubts he even confides to his generals on the field anymore.

"He must tell someone his secrets, hmm." Peggy whispers, drawing little circles on Arnold's chest. "That little soldier boy he fancies? Hmm?"

Arnold jolts out of bed that moment, so much is his glee at having _something_ valuable to deliver to André at last. The Army will bed down at Morristown. It will begin its departure there at the end of November, as usual. They bedded there once before, in the winter of '76. Miserable place. Good strategically. He knows the very route Washington will likely take...

He grabs the special ink and paper from the drawer.

 _Get Hamilton_.

Peggy looks over his shoulder at the note, the invisible ink still visible while wet. 

"My dear, the boy, this _Hamilton_ , won't turn on the General." She says slowly.

Benedict laughs and kisses her cheek loudly, "It's a bit more literal than that, my dear." And he scribbles on.


	14. On the Road to Morristown

_November 1779_

_Road to New Jersey_

Hamilton hates travel, almost as much as he hates standing still. At least he has his portable writing desk, so he can keep productive. The songs the army chants are stupid. His thighs ache and his neck screams at him after a long ride staring down at his papers. Those footsteps, chants, coughing, jesting - and bawdy jokes if his horse lags too far back - get on his nerves as he tries to put into words just how useless Congress is while still asking them for funds.

Stopping is a luxury he takes full advantage of. He jumps from his horse - after carefully passing down his desk - and nearly sprints away from the army. A line of trees beckons him. He nearly dives into them, making sure that he is close enough to the bulk of the army to hear the calls back to formation.

The trees are turned every color of the Fall and more. It’s beautiful out here, if you can ignore the ragtag army. 

“Deserting, Colonel Hamilton?” A voice booms from behind him.

Hamilton, breathless, turns on his heel. Washington, dressed in full uniform even when the army is travelling, strides towards him. The sun is high in the sky at this time of day. Its rays shine on the buttons of his jacket, the hilt of his sword, outline his figure. Of course, George Washington always looks on the side of the ethereal and Hamilton isn’t as dazed as he once would have been.

Washington catches up to him and smiles whimsily, “A hangable offense.” He sounds happy. And he sounds young, with a hint of innocence after years of experience. Colonel Hamilton’s love is a very rejuvenating tonic to the stresses of war.

Arms slip around Hamilton’s middle. He can feel Washington’s breath on the nape of his neck. His eyes slip shut and he can still feel the warm autumn sun on his face. This might be the closest he comes to heaven.

“Treasonous.” Washington’s voice is soft and his breath smells of minty coolness. 

Hamilton’s smile deepens, “I’ve never been innocent, sir.” 

Washington chuckles, “No, you’re no innocent, Alexander, that’s for certain.” He gently releases Hamilton from his grasp. They don’t make a habit of meeting like this while on the road. It is likely that a trusted aide has been stationed somewhere near, to call to them if they could be seen. 

“Sir, I’ve been thinking.” Hamilton begins.

“Oh, so I’m in danger then?”

“ _I’ve been thinking_ ,” Hamilton begins again, with a glare at Washington, “that next Spring I might take up a battalion to command.”

Washington’s face smooths into its stoic default, “I do believe that we’ve discussed this just yesterday, Alexander.” Leave crunch under his boots as he turns to leave.

“Please don’t ignore me.”

“I’m hardly ignoring you. We have been in these woods not two minutes and you already have attacked me with this silly command request again. I would like to rest some now, please.”

“It isn’t silly, sir. I can be of better use to you on the field. I’ll wither away at that desk.”

“You won’t get shot at that desk.”

“No, I’ll just get stabbed again.”

“Alexander -”

“I _deserve_ a command!”

“You know how I need you.”

“But I need this! For after the war, and my prospects.”

Washington laughs. A wind comes through the trees and sprinkles them with more leaves. Alexander trembles, but not from the cold.

“Your prospects? I will take care of you, dear boy. I will pay for your tuition and housing, finance whatever career you so desire. Or we will retire to Mount Vernon. I will provide for you, Alexander. You know this. Your future is secure.” Washington has walked back to him now and is speaking very quietly, intimately.

Alexander shakes his head, “No. Not like that. I’m not…” He trails off. 

“You’re not what?” He asks, his fingers lightly grazing Hamilton’s elbow.

Hamilton looks him in the eye, “I’m not your whore, George.” He keeps his voice level, trying to devoid it of emotion and failing. Some anger gets in, and some sadness.

Washington’s hand drops, “I didn’t mean it like that. I want to take care of you, not because…” He doesn’t know where his words are going and they fade away as a result.

There are many responses Hamilton would like to give, none of them kind. He compromises by giving no response at all. He does not want to fight with the General. Maybe if he were Tench or Harrison, both coming from good families, he would push the issue less. But his name was never good. The love affair made it worse, somehow. Hamilton wants redemption, to prove himself.

Washington won’t listen.

“I love you, Alexander.” Washington finally says. “I would marry you, if I could, and if you would have me. I cannot shield you by giving you my name, but I might with all else I might give. It seems the noblest action I can take, to facilitate your rise in this world.” He puts a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder, “You are going to change the world someday, Alexander. I know it.”

Hamilton imagines that golden cage again, complete with publications and a library of books at his disposal. As slaves tend the fields at Mount Vernon and his career is financed by their labor (which, honestly, Hamilton’s first act at the end of this war will be to change that appalling social structure). 

Hamilton does not want a cage; he wants wings.

\---

“A penny for your thoughts?” Aaron Burr slumps next to him when they stop to camp for the night. Hamilton has laid out his bedroll under the stars, far away from the Commander and other generals. Usually, Hamilton takes at least one turn keeping watch, to ensure that the General remains safe while the army is so vulnerable in their travels. It helps ease his some of his fear for his lover's safety.

Tonight, he lays with his thoughts alone. With, he supposes now, Aaron Burr.

“I want a command.” Hamilton doesn’t bother to keep his voice down.

A few heads turn but ultimately look away after a beat of silence.

Burr is more quiet, “You still want to fight?” He asks.

Hamilton nods.

“Not right.” Burr intones, matter of fact. He wants to reach out to Alexander and shake that thin neck until it knocks those thoughts right.

“I have more than proven my ability to lead.”

“You know the dangers of fighting, Alexander. Your health is the most valuable thing you possess.”

Aaron Burr knows this lesson too well. Last year, after Monmouth, Burr was treated for heat stroke. He then spent most of the Summer of 1779 running drills and fighting on the battlefield. More heat stoke. His health still suffers for this. He would leave the army tomorrow, if it did not mean leaving Hamilton alone.

Alexander doesn't even know half of what Burr suffers though, health-wise or in the affairs of the heart. Burr does not want Alexander to think him weak. Not when Alexander sees Washington each day, a man in nearly the pinnacle of health even in his more mature years. Burr fears he would not hold up much in the comparison.

Not that he is in any competition with the General.

Of course he isn’t.

“I knew you wouldn’t understand. I don't come to this war with wealth or title.” Hamilton rolls away.

“You don’t have to worry about money, Alexander.” Burr whispers to the back of his head.

Hamilton doesn’t turn around, “So it’s a common understanding then that my services to the General will be repaid? Lovely.”

Burr sputters. His voice comes out in a harsh hiss of air, “No! That’s not-” He takes a deep breath. “I mean that I can loan you money. As a friend.” 

In truth, he would _give_ Hamilton any money or recommendations or even his very life if Hamilton would ask. Which is not healthy. But he knows Hamilton won’t take what he doesn’t earn. And Burr can’t quite reveal his own reasons for giving Hamilton the world, if he would only take it.

“Oh. No, thank you, Burr, but I will keep your kind offer in mind. I should be able to increase my pension through advancement.” He, blessedly, flips around to stare at Burr again, “I have quite shot myself in the foot, sir, by being so close to the General. He won’t put me in danger. And danger is precisely how I came to his staff and precisely how I can rise up, on my own. I no longer wish to be some rich family’s pet.” He had relied on the Mulligans and Livingstons in his early days in New York. “I want my own command.”

“Good luck with that.” 

"Will you stay by me, tonight?" Alexander does not have many close friends left in the army. Laurens is still in South Carolina working with his battalion. Lafayette had been granted permission to return to France, to heal from some battlewounds gained in America and also to petition the French, and the Spanish, for yet more aid. Mulligan remains their spy in British controlled New York. Tonight Alexander needs a friend. Besides Washington, who really is at the root of his issues right now, Burr is the closest friend he has here.

Burr draws in a breath, "Yes, with pleasure, Alexander." He then lays out his own bed roll, which had otherwise served as a makeshift pillow during their talk. 

They lay in silence, staring at one another, until Alexander's eyes drift shut. His breathing slows. Burr watches him, transfixed. Memories flood in unbidden. He longs to reach over and enfold the sleeping figure into his embrace, despite the other soldiers sleeping near him. He wants to whisper his longings. Instead, he lays on the cold ground. Everything he wants is within his reach but he keeps his arms folded.

Dawn threatens the dark horizon.

\---

Major John André runs a finger over the rim of his wine glass, “It’s a charming idea, sir. However, if I wanted to destroy the army with a kidnapping, I would go for a bigger fish.” He smiles at Mrs. Arnold, who is dressed in a lovely red striped gown this evening.

Benedict Arnold must be serious in this, to demand that André cross enemy lines to speak in person. It’s a chance that Andre does not take lightly. 

Seeing the gracious and beautiful Peggy Arnold makes the decision to risk himself easier.

Arnold snorts, “You take the big fish and another will take his place at the top of the chain. Lee, Scott, any of them would clammer to be Commander. They are knaves. But you take this boy, we have the heart of Washington while he is Commander. He’ll hand the army over on a platter for his boy soldier.” He smiles at Mrs. Arnold. He would hand over an army for _her_. “If not, just imagine the secrets the boy can be _persuaded_ to tell us.”

André still looks doubtful. 

Peggy steps in at this point, making her cheek dimple in the way that men seem to lose their better senses at.

“John, we two must defer to Benedict on this. He is the one who has seen those _hot_ glances, those _passionate_ exchanges, those _sins_ with his own eyes. If anything, it’s a Christian act to take away this poor youth from that old leecher.” She makes her voice high and breathy at the last bit. Let Andre think what he likes with that.

The comparison is not lost on André, who subtly flicks his eyes over to Peggy’s own leecher of a husband.

She grinds the point in a little further, “You know, I think Benedict just told me this morning that this Hamilton is around _my_ age.”

And Washington is Arnold’s age.

Well, André is a Christian man. At times.

He raises his glass to the Arnolds.

\---

The army is hours away from Morristown when the ambush comes. Later the attackers would be identified as members of the Queen’s Rangers, an elite force of raiders. Six or seven pop out of the trees during one of the army’s rest periods, around mid afternoon. Most of the men have put their weapons down for a drink or a bite to eat. Others have quitted themselves to the trees to relieve themselves. 

The Rangers are quiet as field mice until they emerge, screeching like hawks ready to kill. 

It's disorganized chaos then. The nearest American soldiers get their throats slit. Aides rush to guard Washington. They have every reason to believe that he is the target of this guerrilla attack. Several literally cover his body with their own, preferring the bayonet to the death of their commander.

But the Rangers have little interest in General George Washington. They zero in on their target. A red kerchief is tucked into the back of his coat, placed there by an inside man, just as planned. One ranger shoved a gag in the target's mouth as another rips the weapon from his hand. A third and fourth grab his arms as the first bags his head. It takes mere seconds and they disappear back into the woods.

The whole affair lasts less than a minute.

The army is left in confusion, fearing another attack and still in disbelief at the first. 

A brigadier captain orders several of his men to follow the fleeing Rangers. 

The men return empty handed and out of breath.

“They just disappeared, sir!”

They count five dead and four wounded. Most of the poor souls did not even have their weapons within reach, a few others did not even get the opportunity to draw theirs. One captain swears he sliced one of the devil’s stomachs and his sword does show the evidence of blood. 

Then someone shouts they saw one of their own taken captive by the bastards. Two of them hauled him away, after he was gagged and bagged. His legs were still kicking, the eyewitness claims. Alive.

It doesn’t take long to identify the stolen soldier.

“Where’s Hamilton?” Burr asks. The others look around, wildly. Louder. “Where is Alexander Hamilton!?” Frantic now. He spins around. The faces of the other soldiers blur. His breath comes quick and he feels dizzy. 

“ALEXANDER!"

But Alexander Hamilton is gone.


	15. Redcoats

Hamilton fights. 

God, does he fight! 

He kicks. He thrashes. He elbows one in the face. Eventually, after he is beaten bloody and bruised worse, he calms. He is thrown over a horse and feels the legs of another man under his abdomen. He is being held, roughly but securely. Ropes cover his body.

They ride for what feels like hours.

_How will he find me?_

He screams for so long against his cloth gag that his throat is raw. 

They stop for a brief rest. The bag over his head is pulled roughly away. He squints against the sun. It’s lower in the sky now. Hours have passed. It’ll be getting dark soon. So far from…

“Colonel Hamilton,” A light voice asks, “would you like some supper? If you scream, we will gag you again. And screaming won’t help you now.”

Hamilton screams once his gag is removed.

His captor thrashes his head. The others laugh.

“Suit yourself.”

There are at least ten of them. All of them dirty, brutish. They look like real warriors, from the old Greek fables. Strong. Ready to fight to death. Hamilton can’t help but feel weak and feeble in comparison to them. 

He is scared. Terrified, if he is truthful (and, in his own thoughts, he has no reason to lie). In all his traumatic past, he has never known this type of fear. Hurricanes threaten to drown him, bullets threaten to pull him down, starvation….

It’s different now. His own life does not flash before his eyes. He does not worry for himself. He has friends now.

Burr.

Lafayette.

Tench.

Mulligan.

Laurens.

Washington.

...Washington...

Alexander doesn’t allow himself to dwell on thoughts of his lover. He might go mad. How to get back? Running is foolish. They’ll shoot him in the back. Bartering? Ha! He has no money, title, land, nothing to offer. To give up the only valuable in his life, his love, would negate the reason for his return. 

He grunts into his gag with frustration.

“Calm down, Mr. Hamilton. We’re nearly there. Let the boys rest a moment.” The man, presumably the leader, pauses...then smiles. “Back to New York, my dear rebel colonel, a little homecoming for you.”

New York?

Damn.

\---

After another short ride - really, Hamilton thinks they took a break only to mess with him - they arrive at the start of the city. After a flash of papers and a loud laugh from the guards, they are let through the gates. Some streets down - 10? 12? Hamilton’s muddled mind can’t keep track - they stop at a house. Hamilton can hear the horse hoofs move from cobblestone to smooth pavement. 

Two arms drag him up stairs, his feet thumping useless against them. He feels the chill of the autumn wind still as they enter a home.

Hamilton gets thrown onto a carpeted floor. He coughs as it knocks the wind out of him. Hands throw him back up to his feet, before he is ready to stand. His body again meets the hard ground as his knees give way.

“Gentlemen, is this how we treat our guests? You’ll have Mr. Hamilton believe that we are as uncivilized as the rebels.” 

Hamilton feels a gentler hand guide him to his feet and then hold his arm as he regains his balance. His eyes squint in the firelight when the bag is taken from his head. A handsome gentleman is by his side, dressed impeccably in a red coat to laud his British loyalties. 

_They are all British_ , Hamilton reminds himself, _all enemies_.

The handsome gentleman leads him to a seat in the front parlor room. He removes the gag from Hamilton’s mouth. Hamilton does not scream, seeing no use in screaming now. Honestly, he doesn't know if his throat would produce a sound anyway.

“You’ve had quite the journey, Mr. Hamilton. I would not presume to take up any more of your time this evening.” The gentleman next undoes the bindings on Hamilton’s wrists and arms. Some blood trickles down his wrists. The man holds his own handkerchief to the cuts. “We will be more properly introduced tomorrow, sir. Tonight you will have a warm bed, some good food, and a restful sleep.”

Hamilton is over-tired, so much so that he does not fight this gentleman’s soft touches. The man is willowy and delicate in his features. Hamilton might have been able to overpower him, if it was just them two in the room. However, a dozen other soldiers, and half a dozen Queen’s Rangers, stare at them. Hamilton judges the situation well and does not fight.

A warm cup is pressed into his hand.

“Drink.”

He hesitates.

“Oh, do come on lad. Would we poison you after all that?” The gentleman waves his hand, clearly gesturing to the events of the day.

Hamilton drinks down the warm tea, sweetened with honey and spiked with brandy. He begins to shake. So much so that the fragile tea cup falls from his hand and shatters on the ground. 

“Not to worry. Just a cup. I imagine you’re in still a measure of shock, my lad, after today.” The gentleman gently rubs his shoulder.

 _Don’t fall for it_ . Hamilton tells himself. _They are comforting you on purpose. To ease you into a sense of trust. To get information. To get Washington_.

But they had the chance to get Washington today, hadn’t they? And they went for Hamilton…

He doesn’t remember walking up the stairs, nor getting into the large bed in the center of the room. Yet, by the time the gentleman blows out the candle on the nightstand next to his bed, Hamilton is asleep.

\---

For a moment, after hearing the frantic report that Colonel Hamilton was likely kidnapped, Washington thought his heart stopped. Sound stopped. Gone. He confirms himself that the boy is not one of the dead.

Washington orders hundreds of men to score the woods. The army remains in place for nearly an hour, a reckless order, while waiting for each scouting party to return with their reports:

_No signs of blood._

_No tracks._

_No Hamilton._

Eventually the army needs to move out. They’ve already been left vulnerable for enough of the day. After they have confirmation that the enemy can, and will, get to them. 

Washington surprises himself with his orders to move forward. His voice does not quiver. His hands don’t shake as he pulls himself back onto his horse. His heart keeps beating. Time keeps moving forward. Each step carries them further from Hamilton. Wherever he is.

They arrive at Morristown in stunned silence. The rest of the army begins to set up their camp, taking over the home of Colonel Jacob Ford, Jr. and his wife, Theodosia, for Headquarters. The soldiers immediately begin selecting lumber for the planned long home. Washington hears his aides speaking to him. He responds without thought. He is numb. His expression betrays him to his staff, who know him too well.

Harrison leads him to a chair, just unpacked from a wagon. Another, Tilghman, pushes a wine flagon into his hand. Tells him to relax for the evening. They’ll handle the rest, sir, just relax now.

Headquarters, having been moved countless times now, comes together in the matter of an hour. Boxes of papers stack up in the corner.

Paper. Ink. Pen. Write to...someone. Who has ordered this? It could be any British general or rogue with ambitions. There is no one to address the letter to. He must wait for their instructions. To write to the enemy is to give away an advantage. They may not even know _who_ they have taken (though Washington doubts they could be so lucky). Any could claim to have him, without proof.

He could be dead.

Oh, God.

He could already be dead.

\---

Burr numbly moves among Washington's aides-de-camp, though officially he should be over with McDougall's men. No one tells Burr to leave. 

Burr unpacks Alexander’s knapsack and writing desk. He sets it up where he knows it goes. Next to the over-large table at the center of the room. 

No one tells Burr to put it anywhere else.

After Headquarters is set to rights, he walks out among the men. He busies himself wherever he can. Pulling up tent posts. Clearing out old shacks of the woodland creatures that had made them their own homes. He sweats. It helps disguise the tears that trickle out, unbidden and unnoticed. 

It’s late into the night, well past midnight, when Burr goes among the trees. He weaves between the trunks. Shadows rise and fall with the wind. He half expects to see Alexander emerge ahead of him, weaving through the foliage as well. He thinks screaming might help him, if he had the energy.

But he just feels so...numb.

\---

Hamilton wakes in a soft bed. Two Redcoats are stationed in his room, watching him. Which is...uncomfortable. Especially since their eyes stay on his as he relieves himself and then dresses into the clothes laid out on the bedroom bench. He is almost surprised they didn’t lay out a red coat to boot.

He is no fool. They expect him to betray his country. He won’t. He’ll die first.

The Redcoats follow him as he makes his way downstairs. He can guess, having been in enough of these over-large, sprawling houses, where the dining room will be. Ahh, yes, right off the front parlor, as usual.

His host/captor sits at the head of the table, already well into his breakfast with a book laid out next to him. He waves his hand casually towards a seat at the other end of the table, rightly guessing that Alexander would _not_ want to be near him. So touchy were these upstarts during these mundane acts of war. The kidnapping went entirely as planned, without humiliation or injury...for the most part. If only the lad had stopped fighting he wouldn’t have those bruises.

A plate of eggs and toast is placed before him. Alexander doesn’t eat. He stares at the man with cold eyes.

The man sighs, “If you think to play a silly starvation game with me, you should know it won’t work. I promised you good food and I must insist you eat to keep up your strength. I anticipate you’ll try, foolishly, to escape later and I will not have you injure yourself through weakness.”

Fair point.

Alexander considers this and then digs in, hungrily. The man hums his approval and goes back to his book. This man is very handsome, Alexander thinks, with ruddish red hair and a prim rosebud of a mouth. Intelligent eyes. Long, well manicured hands. A gentleman.

Yet kidnapping is no gentlemanly sport. 

“Your book?” Alexander manages to choke out. His throat is still raw and aching from yesterday. The coffee (God, the best coffee he has had in ages) soothes his throat as it goes down. His mind is still too muddled to try to work through any intelligence that a more tactful conversation regarding his kidnapping would yield. He sticks to lighter subjects that he knows these _gentlemen_ cannot resist.

“Hesiod. I prefer him to Homer, these days, at least.” The man smiles and his voice shifts into a proper prose:

“ _She herself recounted for them everything in clear fashion:_

_with them, they would win victory and vaunt of renown._

_For all too long they had been fighting…_ ”

“... _with toil that pains the spirit against one another in strong encounters._ ” Hamilton finishes for him. 

“Ah, a scholar. Thank heavens, for I fear that most of my men abhor these recitations. The end of the stanza too though, quite fitting for our present circumstances: _No loosening of harsh strife was there or end for either side, and the decision of war was pulled fast and even_.” 

“I am to be used to pull the decision then?” Alexander, for all his intentions of a light breakfast conversation, could not help but react to _that_. His voice comes out raspy, making him sound all the angrier.

The man smiles though.

“Mr. Hamilton, I do not mean to provoke you. I understand you are amongst the most fervent of the patriots, dear sir. Our time together does not need to be unpleasant, what with all the fighting that must occur outside of these walls. You are safe here, Mr. Hamilton.” The man stands up then, closing the little book gently, “I must head to my duties. I urge you to rest, Mr. Hamilton. If you would give some attention to my poor, neglected books in my little library upstairs, it would delight me. But, Mr. Hamilton, if you should foolishly try to escape, all my men have their orders.”

He looks at the Redcoats still standing guard at the doors. 

“The moment you leave this house without my leave, they will shoot you. And they are very excellent shots.”

With another charming smile and a bow, the man goes to leave. But Hamilton, his curiously now buzzing, despite the clear threat issued to him, speaks up. 

“Your name, sir?”

The man lets out a tinkle of laughter.

“My apologies! I have missed the most important detail as a host, I suppose. My introduction. Major John André, at your service, dear sir.”

\---

Alexander does explore the house, followed closely by his Redcoat guards. It's clearly a headquarters, of sorts, with men swarming the rooms. Redcoats glare at him. He glares back. They largely keep their distance.

The house is a magnificent prison. The drawing room alone must be 50 feet long, leading out to a porch and garden. The dining room is equally enormous. Hallways lead to dozens of other rooms - bedrooms, washrooms, libraries, and offices. The banisters are carved intricately, gold leaf adorns every room. Marble busts line the parlor. The kitchen alone could home three or four families comfortably. 

Alexander imagines that this house sees an abundance of parties, dinners, and dances. André seems that sort of man. Entitled. Frivolous. _British_.

Eventually, Alexander finds his way into the little library off André's room (the soldiers grudgingly inform him of this). The Major has collected quite the collection of works. Selecting a few, Alexander lays himself out on a settee. He reads a Machiavellian type work that is, as far as he can tell, anonymous. Probably rare. After an immeasurable time, a servant brings up a tray of food for him. If not for the Redcoats, Hamilton might think himself on holiday.

It's a magnificent prison, but a prison just the same.

\---

That evening, the Redcoats lead him to the porch outside of the dining room. He judges the low brick wall and rejects an urge to run. A table has been moved out here now, with two places set. Candles positively litter the area. The glow of them is warm and compliments the setting sun. Hamilton sits down and sips at the wine that is quickly poured for him.

André follows shortly after him. He bows before taking a seat himself.

"I hope you are content with dining outside tonight, Mr. Hamilton. I myself take advantage of the good weather before the winter kills the earth." He sips his own wine after a brief thanks to the serving boy.

They are quiet for a long time. Hamilton admires André once again. He seems kind enough, respectful enough. But he is so _British_. Hamilton drinks deeper into his wine glass. He barely noticed that the serving boy is keeping it well filled until he has probably had three or four glasses. He doesn't usually drink wine, especially as it is reserved for the generals and guests at camp. It makes him feel lighter than ale does. And more bold.

"This won't work."

André smiles, putting a polite hand to his mouth before wiping his hands on a napkin. "I beg your pardon, sir?" He smirks.

Hamilton feels justified, at that smirk. "You're making me comfortable. Getting me _drunk_. I won't spill secrets. You may as well torture me." He smirks himself. Let's see how the Redcoat likes it.

But André furrows his brow then and cocks his head. "Sir, I am certainly not trying to manipulate you. Though I will admit to want you to be more comfortable. You are my guest, sincerely. I know you are too loyal and intelligent to spill secrets like that. May I be candid, sir?"

"If you will."

"You are a _bargaining chip,_ dear sir. A valuable prisoner. Your General will pay precious coin or trade over vast number of prisoners for your return. So, we send over our information. We start negotiating. You return to your camp by the end of Winter. Until then, you take advantage of my hospitality and wine, and in exchange I get a gentleman who is well-read and quick-witted. Fair?"

Seems fair enough, for a Redcoat. Hamilton is well aware of the good treatment that high ranked officers receive as prisoners-of-war. Hamilton is not high ranked, but he is valuable as a senior aide-de-camp.

André smirks again. "But if you prefer to be tortured or receive less hospitable treatment...well, I can be amenable to certain," He takes a long, deliberate swallow of wine. "fantasies."

Hamilton blushes, despite himself. He finds his voice again after another long drink of wine.

"No, if you want to pay to keep me for the winter, I'm not fool enough to object."

"Oh, Mr. Hamilton, it will be my _pleasure_ to keep you for this winter. As my guest, of course. Now, I saw that you pulled several of my very favorite volumes today..."

And their talk turns to many other things, of books, philosophies, and histories.

When Hamilton stumbles - more than a little drunk - to his bed that night, he wishes _briefly_ that there wasn't a war after all.

\---

André undresses slowly that evening. He is deliberate with his washing. He sprinkles perfume into the creases of his body. Then he applies a soothing oil to his face, meant to prevent wrinkles. Finally, he pulls on a silk nightshirt and reclines onto his comforter.

He too drank far more than he intended. His ceiling spins slowly above him. It has been a long time since he took so much care into an evening. It has been over a year since he was working to romance Ms. Peggy Shippen. Then that went up in smoke with his departure from Philadelphia and...well, André hasn't had too many reasons to care about his appearance.

He is sick of soldiers. Tired of war. Which is a pity, since he was only recently promoted to head the British intelligence in New York.

Tonight though, he feels alive again. He loves the game. The subtleties of a good dinner. The taste of wine staining his palate. The conversation was enjoyable too, as a benefit. He hadn't planned, initially, of being so friendly to Alexander Hamilton. The other men already question his decision to offer the rebel officer one of the best rooms. He has ordered that Hamilton, despite his low rank, be shown the greatest of respects. The other men likely think André has gone mad.

Those men doesn't know how valuable Hamilton is or the reasons for his capture. 

André does feel some guilt at his deception. He was honest with Hamilton, for the most part, of wanting Hamilton to be comfortable. He also is honest that he does not expect Hamilton to _slip_ any secrets. No, Alexander Hamilton will offer those secrets willingly, given time. But this British officer does not intend to befriend the rebel.

John André plans to seduce Alexander Hamilton. Thoroughly and completely. And then Washington's little army will topple like the toy soldiers they are.


	16. Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breaking hearts here ya'll. Buckle up, grab your tissues, hold your gasps. 
> 
> Also, Turn is officially the mood here. André is secretly my favorite character. Which is problematic in so many ways.

_January 1780_

_Morristown_

A month passes with no word from the British. No offer of negotiations. No blackmail with Hamilton’s life. No corpse is left at the edge of town.

Nothing.

The snow piles high. Temperatures drop to below freezing. Rations run out quicker than they anticipate. It will be a hard winter, that’s clear to everyone.

The aides move carefully around Hamilton’s desk. They are careful to avoid mentioning their lost friend. All the staff grieve in their own way. Tench’s eyes are red rimmed for the whole of the first week. Gibbs is drunk constantly until mid-December, when Harrison finally threatens to have him dismissed. Tallmadge frantically writes to his spy ring and gets a little more desperate each day there is not a response.

Burr asks to be relieved from his service to the army.

Washington works like a madman. He memorizes positions and maps and names until his eyes burn. He speaks to most soldiers in the 'log house city,' judges their health and asks for their personal observations of the war. Desertions and deaths skyrocket. Too large a portion of the remaining men are unfit for duty. He works on inoculating his soldiers and nearby townsmen to combat the threatening smallpox epidemic. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t turn to drink. He might as well stop breathing, for all that he cares about his own life. He is the war now. When the war ends, so will he.

He ignores Christmas, orders the rest of his staff to celebrate without him. Martha, who rushed to his side as soon as she heard, finds the strength makes merry in his absence. He doesn’t speak to her for days afterward. She doesn’t make him.

A few more wrinkles edge their way onto her face. Her hair grays beneath her wig.

The New Year comes. Washington remembers to change the dates on his letters. He writes his own correspondences now. It is both distracts him and reminds him of Alexander. He doesn't know which is worse.

A young lieutenant, ambitious and stupid, a short lived aide-de-camp, offers to make a small grave marker for Colonel Hamilton. Martha’s presence in the workroom that day is the only thing that keeps the boy alive. Washington forbids any of his staff from saying Hamilton’s name if it isn’t regarding intelligence on his whereabouts.

It’s unhealthy, but it helps them carry on without their _little lion_.

Each night, when the rest of the staff is dismissed and the candles burn low, Washington cradles a single paper flower in his palm and quietly sobs.

\---

_January 1780_

_New York City_

The first month of his imprisonment passes quickly, much to Hamilton’s surprise. He gets used to the dinner parties, though they are less frequent than he initially anticipated. Redcoats generally ignore him, especially since he is so tight-lipped about any topic that is war related. André ensures that he has a steady source of reading material. They spend hours at night dissecting the works of the greats. They do not speak of war. They do not speak of any potential negotiations for Alexander’s release.

It’s refreshing and reinvigorating, to both.

They are suspended in a private world of their own, where only books and conversation can survive. Hamilton gains some much needed weight from the rich food. He begins to exercise in the upstairs hallways and spare rooms in the mornings. André joins him, most days, claiming that he himself is growing soft without a regimen. They are sweat soaked and breathless by mid-morning. This tends to play tricks on Hamilton’s brain, and other parts of his anatomy. He cures his ailment with cold water and more reading.

Hamilton is still not given leave to travel outside the house. André explains that to lose Hamilton would be to lose the single most important jewel in his box. It flatters Hamilton’s ego and causes a blush to rise up his neck.

He thinks of Washington every night when he goes to bed and every morning when he wakes. Sometimes his heart aches so badly that he screams into his plump pillows. Fortunately, he knows that he will one day be back with his lover. André has given a gentleman's promise to that and Hamilton holds him to the highest regard by the end of December. He will be reunited with Washington before the end of Winter.

For Christmas André gifts Hamilton writing materials - on the gentleman’s promise that Hamilton will only use them to write essays. It does not cross Hamilton’s mind that he should use them to betray André to get a letter to Washington. André tells Hamilton of his own time as a prisoner-of-war, well before war officially was declared, back in 1775, in Lancaster, Pennsylvannia. He gave a gentlemen's promise that he would not leave the city until released. And he did not leave until he was freed through a prisoner exchange in December 1776. 

Hamilton, always enthusiastic for honor, gives André that same promise.

At New Years, André, surprisingly, does not throw a grand party. He allows the Mayor the honor of having the most splendid party that night. He surprises Hamilton further when he feigns illness and remains home. They sneak wine and baked goods into Hamilton’s bedroom and light a roaring fire.

André reads to Hamilton from a new volume containing the works of poet Alexander Pope.

" _Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste_

_Rejects mankind, is by some Sylph embrac'd:_

_For Spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease_

_Assume what sexes and what shapes they please._

_What guards the purity of melting Maids,_

_In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades,_

_Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring spark,_

_The glance by day, the whisper in the dark,_

_When kind occasion prompts their warm desires,_

_When music softens, and when dancing fires?_

_'Tis but their Sylph, the wise Celestials know,_

_Tho' Honour is the word with Men below_ ”

Hamilton sighs, “It’s lovely, Major.” He is stretched out on the fireplace rug, like a cat. The fire is warm against his face. His stomach is filled with sweets and wine. André’s voice is so soft and soothing. Hamilton is at risk of falling asleep just like this.

The Major scans the reclined, lithe frame openly before closing the book.

“May I ask a favor?” André’s voice is very quiet now, almost in a whisper.

Hamilton peers out from under his lashes.

André continues even without Hamilton giving a verbal response. “Call me John? At least when we are alone. If you would give me that honor.” 

Hamilton nods sleepily. Something nudges him in the back of his mind, a whisper of a memory...alone... _just us._ It disappears just as quick in his wine drunk haze. 

“Please, sir, call me by my given name as well, if you will.”

“ _Alexander_.” André mouths the word like it is a treasure. Hamilton is mesmerized by his lips and finds himself tracing his own with his fingertips. André takes in a sharp breath. The fire crackles behind them, it's the only other sound in the house. Hamilton imagines he can hear their heartbeats in that quiet.

“The glance by day, the whisper in the dark.” Alexander whispers. 

André leans forward in his chair.

“ _Yes_.”

And then he pulls back, suddenly, and stands. Coughing a bit, he breaks the moment, “I must be off to bed. Meetings tomorrow. Duties. Good night... _Alexander_.” There it is again, those lips forming his name like a prayer.

Hamilton sits up, dizzily, “Tomorrow, _John_?” He asks.

André looks at him gratefully, “Yes, tomorrow.” And he is gone.

That _something_ nudges him again. 

And then is gone in a flutter as Hamilton silently begs for his heart to stop beating so fast.

\---

_February 1780_

_Morristown_

Martha Washington stands at the War Room door nervously. She has never feared her husband, as other women often do. He has given her the most kindness and love that she imagines can be given, considering their circumstances.

It’s different now. _He’s different_. Crueler to his staff. Short tempered. She remembers first coming to him that winter. He turned away from her embrace. He is a man beyond comfort.

“George, dearest, come to bed. Please.” Martha begs him. She sees the flower and recognizes it for what it is. He showed it to her once, when he was still battling against Alexander's attempts at seduction. The tears do fall down her cheeks at that.

“No.” 

“George. Please.” A little more of a whine enters her voice. She feels like she is on the brink of desperation. It was she who shoved her husband into his affair. She has worried about the boy since, especially after that first assassination attempt. If only she had been there to protect him. Unreasonably, she feels like his capture is her fault.

In her heart, she is confident that Alexander is dead. She personally believes it was their own men who committed the act. Alexander is probably buried in the woods in an unmarked grave.

_That poor, sweet boy._

She does not voice this to her husband and says a silent prayer for Alexander's soul. No one is brave enough to mention Alexander’s name to Washington anymore. Especially not after that foolish aide almost got himself strangled in broad daylight.

Washington does rise up eventually, slowly, as if a heavy weight is on his shoulders. He carefully places the flower back into its ornate wooden box. Martha knows that all those letters will be in there too. When he turns to look at her, his eyes are so tired and red. Martha stops a sob from escaping her throat. She puts an arm around his lower back and leads him up the stairs. 

\---

_February 1780_

_New Haven, Connecticut_

Aaron Burr returns to his law studies. Officially, he will begin law school in March but he reads the books almost obsessively before then. His heart breaks a little more each day. He talks to himself. He walks the length of the city, despite the snow. Men avoid his eyes. He doesn’t try to catch theirs.

He is tempted to buy a small plot in the cemetery. A headstone for...no, that would truly drive him mad. Burr doesn’t know why he is taking this particular death so hard. Nearly everyone who loves him has died. And he didn’t even hold Alexander’s heart.

But Alexander still holds his.

\---

_Alexander smiles at him after he signs up for Washington’s Army._

_\---_

_Burr kisses Alexander’s shoulder in the dark, listening to the sounds of other soldiers singing around a fire. Alexander begins humming along. Burr stifles a giggle into Alexander’s back._

_\---_

_They come together desperately. Usually, Burr takes Alexander from behind. Tonight he insists on looking into his lover’s eyes as he thrusts. It was a long battle, with many close calls. Burr needs to look in those eyes. They are both alive. Hamilton is alive and on fire beneath him._

_He reminds himself to be more careful with his heart. Alexander is addicting. It’s too dangerous to have too much._

_\---_

_“Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, sir?” A young man stares at him. The man seems to shake with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety._

_“That depends who's asking?”_

_The man - let’s be honest, the_ boy - _smiles, “Oh, sure, sir! My name is Alexander Hamilton. I’m at your service, sir. I have been looking for you.” He grips the strap of his bag tighter. His smile is so sweet, sincere. And, oh, look at those eyes..._

_\---_

_Alexander kisses him suddenly. It surprises Burr. If he had known Alexander was light, he would have trounced him when they had a more comfortable bed to land in before they enlisted._

_\---_

_“He’s asked me to join his staff.”_

_“I’m_ shocked _.”_

_“Don’t tease me, Burr. Please. I’m serious. I’m going to be an aide to General Washington himself! Be happy for me?”_

_“I am, Alexander, truly. I’m happy for you.”_

\---

_Alexander smiles at him._

_\---_

_Alexander._

_\---_

It’s quiet uptown.

\---

_February 1780_

_New York City_

Hamilton casually asks about the negotiations for his release one morning, after their exercises. André looks away; he avoids the question. Instead, almost as a peace offering, he gives Alexander permission to walk in the city, with an escort.

“If you would like to brave the streets, that is.” André’s smile is bright again. They had spent the previous night drinking spiked cocoa in front of the large bay window, watching the snow fall, with André eventually bringing out his flute to make merry.

“I believe you’ll come to find that I have more bravery than I do wits, sir.” Hamilton laughs with him. It’s easy to be friends with John André. Even if he is a blasted Redcoat. Hamilton holds a sneaking suspicion that André would be a rebel, if he had been in the country prior to the war. It helps Hamilton justify his strong attraction to the Major’s friendship.

André bows to him, sweat pouring down his face. His hair, normally braided with a black, prim ribbon, has fallen loose around his shoulders.

Hamilton bows back.

Hamilton does go through the city that day. It’s cold, but no worse than Valley Forge had been on the bad days. Hamilton has heard some whispers in the house that Washington’s army is not doing as well in Morristown. _Low on supplies. Deserters. Disease._ He hears this one day when passing André’s study. He doesn’t allow himself to dwell. If he does, he will start hoping that they don’t reach an agreement on his release so that Washington can barter their prisoners for money or supplies.

Hamilton doesn’t allow himself to think that maybe he doesn’t want to be saved.

It’s just that it is so nice to have so many luxuries after years at war. And he didn't have too many luxuries before the years at war. To read for pleasure. Talk aimlessly with a friend into the night. Binge on sweets and wine. Sleep for hours without worrying about some address that needs writing or a dispatch that arrives in the night. To be under the protection of John André. 

It seduces Hamilton, this comfort and rest. It will do him good when he is back at camp. His productivity will be unmatched!

Hamilton thinks he sees someone out of the corner of his eye following them. He almost tells his guard, before he remembers that the Redcoats aren't truly there to protect him. They are to keep him secure for the British negotiations. The figure slips into an alleyway. Hamilton elects to return to the house before he finds trouble he doesn't need.

\---

Hamilton watches André at dinner that night. They are in André's room again, where they have been taking their meals more frequently. Hamilton, being seen as person of lower importance in the house, hears the servants talking about them. Calling them unnatural, that the Major best be careful about his _night habits_ or they'll be getting a new major soon enough. Hamilton can't help but agree with them. But he also can't help but accept André's offers of company.

"Oh, nonsense." André waves away Hamilton's concern as he pours their wine. Hamilton is relieved that André doesn't take it seriously. They still have to discuss the benefits of a strong financial institution for a nation, a conversation which Hamilton had tricked André into that morning at breakfast.

André laughs at Hamilton's well prepared argument, "Are you sure you aren't a King's man? A strong _central_ government." 

Hamilton actually laughs with him.

"The issue, John, is representation. You certainly can agree that merit is importance in a position of power, yes?" Hamilton does not know for sure, but he can sense a hunger and ambition in André that simply isn't present in some of these other Redcoats. 

André goes quiet for a time, "Alexander, may I reveal myself to you? I've only told one other person. I'll ask you to keep this in in your confidences."

"Yes, of course."

"My parents come from merchant stock. It is not respected in England, as you may know. Especially since my mother is French and my father Swedish. I feel perpetually like I am working on merit, the army and art and languages and music. To become a gentleman. Isn't that silly?"

Hamilton does not find it silly. He instead finds that he might be staring into a mirror of a wealthier and more fortunate version of himself. 

André continues without waiting for an answer, "Anyway, I suppose I am quite obsessed with _merit_. I lose so much due to this obsession with blood lines. Yet make no mistake that I am loyal to my king." It doesn't sound like he means the last bit, however. He almost sounds bitter. Alexander wonders if this is what is like to know someone's mind so well that it is like knowing your own. André would be a patriot, given other circumstances. 

Hamilton keeps his response simple, "I think you know that I admire you, despite your red coat." It's meant as a compliment and luckily André takes it as such.

"And I think you know I admire you, for all that you are." André then gives that characteristic cough that signals this conversation is closed. They turn away from politics to languages, with André promising Hamilton that they will practice their French this damned cold winter through the original works of Descartes and Voltaire.

\---

_March 1780_

_Morristown Encampment_

Tallmadge bursts into Headquarters, causing all the staff to jump and a few to draw their weapons. They lower them again when it see it is just the Major. He gulps in air, holding his hand up to signal that he needs their attention. Washington stands up from his desk.

"Alive!" Tallmadge gasps out, "Hamilton is alive!"


	17. Say No to This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MAJOR Consent issues in this chapter. Read with care if you are sensitive to issues of rape/non-con. I have put a ---***--- to mark this section. Skip it if you would like. You'll be able to gather what happens through context.

Washington nearly embraces Major Tallmadge. He remembers himself just in time. Instead he claps Tallmadge on the shoulder. Relief floods through him and he _laughs._ His heart beats anew.

“Are you certain?” 

Tallmadge, finally having caught his breath, grins back. “Yes, Culper Jr. saw a man matching Colonel Hamilton’s description out with a British escort. I sent him the sketch, as you may remember, sir. They went into the residence of Major John André. Culper Jr. writes that he continued his investigation. He asked a British officer who confirmed the Major has had a valuable prisoner living with him. Another supplied that the prisoner was one of your men, sir. It’s _him._ ” 

Harrison furrows his brow though. “We haven’t received any letter for an exchange or ransom. They may be working on him for information.” 

Tallmadge does not answer this and hands the parchment to Washington.

“It is a short report, sir.”

“Thank you, Major.” Washington folds the parchment tenderly. He has not yet worked out what the next move is or how to get Hamilton back. All he knows right now is that Hamilton is _alive_. 

Life seems a little brighter.

\---

_March 1780_

_New York City_

Hamilton counts the days. He realizes by the end of his fourth month of captivity that he might not be released come spring. 

He is restless. Books and conversation, without purpose, leave him sour these days. He takes long walks in the city. Then refuses André’s offers for company. By the end of that first week in March, he feels like a powder keg about to explode.

André stops him in the front parlor.

“Alexander,” He says softly, “Are you alright?”

Hamilton feels some guilt at his distance. But André promised he would be released. “No, I am a _soldier_. And my war's not done.” He nearly spits out his response.

“Yes, I know.” André waves away the Redcoat guards. He then guides Hamilton out the front door.

“Wha-?” 

“ _Not here._ ” André hisses.

The air is still chilly, but much of the snow has melted. André leads them down several streets. He looks straight ahead and walks with purpose. When they reach a small bridge, covering a small frozen pond that somehow survived the growth of New York, André stops.

“Alexander, I am sorry.” André sounds truly distressed. He turns away from Hamilton and grips the bridge ledge with his gloved hands. “I don’t understand why they...they haven’t...made the proper inquiries. And now they won’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have received intelligence from my men.” André speaks slowly. “The ones in your camp. No, _stop_ , you know how war works, Alexander. Don’t insult yourself. Washington’s army is nearly destitute. Dying. Nothing to offer for your release. They only offer to return our men for supplies. They aren’t interested in more mouths to feed. Especially if we keep their men alive”

It feels like a punch to his gut, “They would want my return.” He is certain of this. Washington needs him, wants him, _loves_ him. These are simple truths Hamilton won't try to betray.

André looks exasperated, “I know, Alexander. I _know_.” He waves his hand vaguely. “But Washington is only trading for supplies. That is what your army needs, Alexander.”

Tears cloud his vision, “He knows I’m okay?” He draws his sleeve over his eyes.

André shrugs and doesn’t answer. 

A moral quandary rises up in Hamilton. He knew the winter would be hard even before his capture. Now he faces the issue away from his army but still in a very personal way. His freedom or the army’s survival? It’s a rhetorical question, of course. The decision is out of his hands. It helps him accept with his continued imprisonment, somehow. Like he is sacrificing for the cause.

Ha, such sacrifice! Books. Food. Drink. A soft bed. Warm conversation. He's ashamed of himself.

“Can you possibly forgive me?” André asks quietly.

Hamilton meets his gaze.

“I’m afraid I cannot keep my promise that you will be released by Spring.”

“Oh, John, this isn’t your fault. Thank you, for your candidness. I don’t know what I would do without you here.”

André takes a step closer, “My dearest Alexander. It is I who rely on your good judgment and wit these dark days.” Another step closer. “I fear that I can quite lose myself in scholarship.” _One more step, almost there._ He grabs Hamilton’s hand. “I can lose myself…” He brings Hamilton’s hand to lay a kiss on its knuckles, “in your friendship.”

Hamilton wants to rip his hand away. It feels _wrong_. But he doesn’t rip it away. He leaves it firmly in André’s gentle hold. 

He gives the hand a gentle squeeze back.

\---

The seduction is going wonderfully well. 

André is the master of himself once more. Each move is calculated to obsession. He carefully prepares for their evenings together. Hamilton is a hard man to please. He seems only tangentially interested in wine. If André does not remind him of delicacies, he doesn’t eat them. It's a godsend and a curse that Hamilton is shrewdly intelligent. He masters topics in a matter of days, forcing André to request dozens of books per week (much to the chagrin of his staff and the secret delight of the Major).

Hamilton is exactly what André needs this winter. 

André is not too proud to say he enjoys Hamilton’s presence. The man is truly impressive. Clever, witty, his words dance and then spar with André’s own. Thanks be to God that Hamilton is also pleasant to look at. Though André is not surprised that Washington chose a handsome lad for a bedmate.

After _her_...

She still writes to André. Subtle hints in her letters to her sadness. Well, if she is so distressed she should tell her husband. She only needed to say “I don’t” when she decided to say “I do.” He told her to find a spy, not a husband. André is not at fault for her sadness. She is the one at fault for his own misery. 

Seduction is the best medication in the world after suffering a heartbreak.

So André is more than pleased that Hamilton is succumbing so readily to his advances.

Even when Hamilton pulls away, André brings them closer together.

Hamilton is clever though. Too clever by half. It won’t be long before he works out the game. André either needs to break him or capture his heart. He does not care which one it is. He’s lucky that it doesn’t matter which one it is. His next move is the same either way.

\---***---

André orders the men to clear the house that night, feigning some need for extra men near the Wharf. The guards downstairs are kept to a minimum. He pours the wine carefully into the glasses, taking special care to mind their placement on the table. He needs his wits about him as he deprives Hamilton of his own.

Hamilton arrives soon after that, carrying the tome of a book he devoured in two days. 

André offers him a glass. Hamilton takes it without thought and drinks. He screws his face up.

“John,” He gives a cough, “I think the wine’s gone bad.”

John sips his own, “It tastes fine to me. An older vintage, perhaps, than you are used to.” He watches as Hamilton takes another drink. Heat starts to grow in his lower abdomen. 

“How did you find the work?" He asks.

Hamilton glances at him, “What? Oh, it was...good.” He sits down gingerly on the settee at the end of the bed, guiding himself with one hand. 

“Only good?” André laughs softly. “Drink up, let the wine loosen that clever tongue.” 

He flashes a predatory smile. But Hamilton doesn’t see since he does drink the remainder of his glass at the encouragement.

His head drops into his hands soon after. The room is spinning. BANG! The book falls out of his lap on the floor with a loud thud on the carpet. Beads of sweat collect at his temple. André kneels in front of him.

André uses both hands to cup Alexander’s face. He slowly lifts his own head at an angle, stopping only when he is a hair's breadth away from Alexander’s lips.

“Good?” He breathes onto Alexander’s lips. 

Alexander hums in agreement and leans forward. 

André easily leans backward, keeping their distance.

“I want you.” André says to him softly. “I want you. But you have to say yes, Alexander. Say yes.”

Alexander can’t figure out how to say no to this. 

Then André’s mouth is on his and he does not say no.

“Yes.” He says.

It feels slow in the moment but in reality they move quite quickly from there. André spends a few more moments deepening a second kiss. Then he pulls Alexander in his arms and half carries him to the bed. 

Hamilton feels naked flesh under his palms and realizes André’s shirt is now on the floor. He doesn’t remember when it came off. His own shirt is gone too. André is working on his pant strings. They are both naked suddenly. Alexander can't remember when that happened. 

Hard bodies move against one another. An oiled hand grips Hamilton’s cock. It moves quickly. The hold is so tight. He goes to grip André in return and is confused when André pushes him away. 

No, not away. Onto the bed. Hamilton is on his back. André settles above him, angling Hamilton’s cock to his entrance. He slowly sinks down, causing them both to shudder. Hamilton juts up roughly. André settles Hamilton with a hand to his chest. Just a moment to adjust to the intrusion. Their eyes meet. After a few breathes, André starts to move. He controls the pace and is surprised when he gets the rhythm just right. 

Hamilton moans loudly.

André shudders when Hamilton's cock slams into his prostrate. It's pleasurable. He moves faster. Hamilton presses bruises into his hips with a tight hold. André continues his rough pace onto Hamilton. He soon hears whimpers and feels hot wetness spills into him. He grabs his own cock and spills over Hamilton's stomach after only a few strokes.

He rolls away and sees that Hamilton has already fallen asleep. With a gentleness he at once despises himself for, he cleans Hamilton up and straightens him out under the covers. He feels satisfied in the moment. André missed the feeling of a good fuck.

Hamilton gives a little snore and snuggles into the pillow.

\---

André does not find rest.

His soul is in turmoil. 

It was so calculated. He measured the powder to most minuscule granule. He planned his lines and delivered them perfectly. He even prepared himself with the oil before Hamilton’s arrival. It went just as planned.

André just didn’t expect this hot shame to consume him.

Hamilton looks so young in the dim light of his bedroom. 

André wonders if tonight makes him a rapist.

No, he didn’t defile Alexander’s body tonight. Hamilton defiled _his_. And he obtained consent. To an extent. The powder only heightens the effects of the wine, he tells himself. It can’t _entirely_ take away a man’s wits. Just his inhibitions. André knows that look of interest and Alexander had that look! Has had the look....

André wonders if he will go to Hell. 

Maybe he was already on his way there.

It’s his first time with a man. He is surprised that he reached a climax at all. It had been his one worry, that he wouldn’t be able to finish the deed once it began. It had been surprisingly pleasurable. Alexander was…

André looks over again at the sleeping form in his bed. Tomorrow is when his plan may bear fruit. Or, at least, the seeds will begin to flower. 

\---***---

The sun breaks through the window. Hamilton’s head pounds. The light sends spikes into his brain. He doesn’t remember drinking to excess yesterday. Yet here he lay in the tell-tale signs of nausea, sweat, and anguish. 

André draws a cool hand along his face.

André?

André!

Hamilton finds the strength to push himself to his elbows. He’s naked. André’s naked. He sees André’s shoulders are covered in lovebites. 

No, no, no, no.

It’s too late to say no though, isn’t it? He said yes last night, he remembers. 

No, no, no, No, NO, NO!

André lays a kiss on his shoulder tenderly, “Alexander,” He moves up to lay a kiss on Hamilton’s mouth. Hamilton can see his desire prominent beneath the sheets. He starts to move away but his wrist is grabbed by André.

“I have to leave.” 

André doesn’t let him go.

“Alexander.”

“I have to leave.”

“ _Alexander_.”

His head spins a little more. He’s going to be sick. He grabs the wash basin and relieves his stomach. 

André does get up then. He walks, stark naked, to his desk. Alexander begins to shake. He smartly replaces the basin before making a true mess of himself and the bed. 

“We need to talk, then?” André gently lowers himself into his chair and folds his long legs. “I thought we were past talking.”

“How could I do this?” Alexander is very quiet, heartbroken. 

André feels that shame rise again. “Alexander, I do not regret this. I do not care about the war anymore.” The lies slip easily from his lips.

Hamilton groans, “John, I’ve already promised my heart to another.”

“An intended?”

“My commander.”

André’s mouth falls open slightly, “ _To...him? Washington?_ ” He gasps and puts a hand to his mouth. It’s well done.

“You didn’t know then? I had a thought that I was taken because…”

“No! Alexander, they would have hanged you here!”

“And now, will they hang us both?”

André stands then and walks the short distance to kneel between Hamilton’s legs. He takes Hamilton’s hands in his own.

“Alexander, as long as I’m alive I promise you, one of those _gentleman’s_ _promises_ you so enjoy, that you will be safe with me. Last night you eased my doubts. This war is hard enough alone. I don’t want to be alone. I need you.”

“I can’t be your lover. I've given my heart to him.” 

André looks down and turns away. 

“I thought...I’m afraid I’ve been the fool here.” He stands and pulls on the robe left hanging on the door of his armoire. He gives a jagged sigh. “Please, Mr. Hamilton, leave me now. I must ready myself to return to my duties."

“John -”

“Perhaps it is better if we return to formalities, Mr. Hamilton. Please, sir, mind my poor heart.” André’s face is lined with tears as turns away again. 

Hamilton finds his clothes. As he dresses, he can hear André gain control of his breathing, which had grown ragged. He makes his way to the door.

“There is one thing.” André says, letting his voice grow bitter, “If he deserved you, he would have came for you. He would have made those inquiries. He never negotiated with us. Did not respond to a single letter or envoy regarding your release. I just thought you should know that before you lay your loyalties at his feet."

Hamilton sulks back to his room.

André feels another piece of his soul break away.

\---

Martha reads the report a second and then a third time, with tears streaming down her face. _Alive!_ That dear, sweet boy is alive! Washington scoops her into a spinning embrace and kisses her cheek soundly. They dance around the room, laughing.

Martha catches her breath and smooths her dress when he lets her down. One thought nags at her.

“George, we’ve received no offer for his exchange? Correct? We've received nothing?” She inquires.

“Yes, we’ve received nothing thus far. I wonder at that too. I will write to them, my dear, to this Major André in New York.”

“The Major will get the greatest bargain in history.” She smiles at him brightly.

Washington can’t help the laughter that bursts from him again.

“Oh, he can have every damned Redcoat in our possession. But we will start with a more reasonable number and work our way up, shall we?” Washington reaches his writing desk in a few long strides. The feather bobs as he writes quickly, uncaring of his penmanship. This will be sent posthaste through the circuit this very afternoon.

Alexander will be back in his arms soon.

\---

André reads Washington’s letter with a detached interest before he tosses it into the fire.

He does not send a reply.

\---

_April 1780_

_New York City_

In the weeks following their evening together, André is the picture of formality. He offers Hamilton books and light conversation after meals, with Hamilton's Redcoat guards firmly reinstated and present as chaperones. There are no more late evening debates, no more clandestine walks in the city, and certainly no friendly touches or furtive glances.

André is again the Major of the house and Hamilton is again the imprisoned guest.

Hamilton hates it.

It's jarring, how quickly André folds back into himself. What's worse is that Hamilton's primal brain gives him flashes of that night. André grabbing his cock. André above him. André kissing him. Hamilton works hard to dispel the images with memories of Washington, but that only serves to make him miserable.

Washington was not trying to get him back?

Hamilton is with the enemy. For all Washington knows, Hamilton could be in the barracks or a jail pit or worse. It's been five months now. He gave years of his life to the revolution, suffering injury and risking certain death. He thought he had value to the army, but he is in reality an aide with no family to advocate or pay for his return. 

André hit home on Hamilton's worst fear that morning. The one that haunts him late at night. Washington has abandoned him again. His friends are scattered to the winds. He has no family to speak of in America. He is helpless in the possession of the British.

And now he had hurt the only friend he had here.

André has the right to be hurt. Hamilton is sure that André risked so much to keep Hamilton entertained and happy this winter. He also has a feeling that André is usually a womanizer and it is an even bigger risk to have Hamilton as a lover. But they connect on so many levels as kindred souls. André is ambitious, smart, kind, and handsome. He listens to Hamilton. He cares for Hamilton.

Washington loves Hamilton. Or, well, he said he loved Hamilton, before. Hamilton was so sure of that love. Yet...they seem to come apart as easy as they come together. 

Doubt comes in and chills the air.

_You've already been abandoned by him several times over._

_You can’t hold a man like Washington._

Burr's words. Burr, who Hamilton thought he loved once too. He has always been naive in these matters. He has always been too quick to love, too quick to trust. 

Doubt comes in and his heart falters

It still aches for Washington though. Hamilton hopes it will finally break so he can move past this love affair at last, like his heart had been briefly broken over Burr. All he needs is a heartbreak to make him happy again. Maybe he could be happy here, now that the revolution has failed him.

Doubt comes in and leaves a trace of vinegar and turpentine. 


	18. Orders

_May 1780_

_New York City_

Alexander appraises himself in the mirror. He expects to feel at least some shame, disgust, or anything at all. Instead, he is devoid of most emotion. His vanity, at least, is flattered by how the red coat looks on him. 

Red coat.

He has not turned on his army. Yet. He cannot deny that he is considering it, after nearly six months of abandonment with no hope of being freed. He is a man of action and has been idling for too long. His impulsive nature is constantly gnawing at him.

He stands in front of André’s tall bedroom looking glass. Wearing his lover’s British uniform at that lover’s request. In the mirror he can see André admiring him from the bed.

“You look good in the coat.” André says.

Hamilton makes a noncommittal noise.

“You would look better without the coat.” André smirks seductively.

Hamilton turns and flashes him a smile. 

They had been lovers for some weeks now. Hamilton surprises himself with the ease of his infidelity. He stills feels as though he is unfaithful, despite how clear it is that he has been abandoned by his lover and army.

“You’ll at least consider my offer?”

“To turn coat? John, leave me some dignity.” Hamilton slides the red coat off his shoulders. 

André laughs, “I daresay we both have none left after last night, my lovely lad.” He stretches himself out on the bed, offering his body once more. Alexander finds it very difficult to say _no_ to André in bed. André is an attentive lover. Affectionate. Insatiable.

Alexander, still clothed, covers that body with his own. He kisses soft lips. He feels André’s desire rising sharply into his hip. 

“Again?” He mumbles. André smiles back in the kiss. 

“Consider it, Alexander, we could change the world. When this war is done, we'll instill our ideals in the colonial governments. Or parliament! Change from within, Alexander!”

“I doubt Old Georgie would approve of that.”

“The king won’t pay mind to you rebellious lot if you stop making a fuss.”

“Do you really wanna have this conversation?”

André sighs, “No, Alexander, though I wish you would look to your own future. _Our_ future. The British forces could offer you the advancement you so clearly deserve. Consider it.”

“I will. Now turn over already.”

\---

André lays in bed next to Hamilton, who snores softly. Nearly there in his plan but his soul has never been more troubled. Hamilton is a good lover and meets his passion with equal enthusiasm. He even is seriously considering André’s proposal that he turn coat. 

If a patriot as famous and dedicated as Alexander Hamilton publicly turns his colors, the Revolution will be dealt a truly devastating blow.

André knew from the start that Alexander would never betray his cause by revealing secrets. And that those secrets he might have revealed could not be trusted. By the time André might have gained his trust as a friend, the intelligence would be stale. 

No, André will turn Alexander Hamilton’s coat red.

André knows how valuable Hamilton’s writings were in the early days of the Revolution. How his actions at Kip's Bay, Trenton, Princeton, among other battles, have increased his status. His time as an aide-de-camp to Washington has cemented his purpose to the Revolution. He knows how Hamilton is a symbol to the rebels. Hamilton is valuable to Washington. It could break Washington’s heart in two to lose his lover - André is more certain of this than ever now that Hamilton is in his own bed.

Alexander Hamilton is addictive.

André can’t stop himself from touching Hamilton when he is in the room. He finds reasons to buy Hamilton gifts - mostly books and writing supplies - or walk with him alone in the city. They debate with such passion that they scream at each other and are near violence. André is now a thorough and passionate sodomite. He realizes that, while he thought he pulled the strings in this plan, he failed to mind his own heart strings getting tangled. It’s foolish, to fall in love with the enemy. 

So André has become the fool. 

He’s even more the fool since he knows his feelings aren’t truly reciprocated. Hamilton does not seem to care for those same small touches. He acts like André is a firebrand if he is cuddled after sex. He might forget André is even in the room if he is engrossed in a good book. He mentions Washington with alarming frequency, now that he seems to trust André’s confidence, both in complaint and in admiration.

André works all the harder to keep his attention. It’s pathetic. He feels like he is holding onto a spooked horse and the reins are slipping from his hands. 

He kisses the top of Hamilton’s head to help ease his anxious thoughts.

“John? Are you awake?” Hamilton grumbles from his pillow.

André wants to reach for him and stops himself. “Yes.” He whispers back. He settles with brushing some hair from Hamilton’s forehead. 

“I can hear you thinking.”

“I’m _dwelling_.”

“You should be _sleeping_.”

André whispers softly in the dark, “I think I love you, Alexander.”

There is no response.

André tells himself that Alexander has fallen back to sleep already. Though he knows it probably isn’t true. 

\---

_At the Entrance of Boston harbour 27th April 1780_

_Here I am, my dear General, and in the mist of the joy I feel in finding myself again one of your loving Soldiers. I take but the time of telling you that I came from France on board of a fregatt Which the king gave me for my passage–I have affairs of the utmost importance that I should at first communicate to you alone–in case my Letter finds you any where this side of Philadelphia, I beg you will wait for me, and do assure you a great public good may derive from it–tomorrow we go up to the town, and the day after I’ll set off in my usual way to join my belov’d and respected friend and general. Adieu, My dear General, You will easily know the hand of Your Young Soldier._

_Lafayette_

_My Compliments to the family_

\---

_May 10 1780_

Lafayette returns to the American experiment at a time of weakness. Several military defeats in the South left morale in shambles. Thankfully, blessedly, he brings a message - supplies, troops, _hope_ from their French allies. 

And he brings a plan to get Hamilton back

“My dear General, I have been thinking.” Lafayette walks the length of Morristown with Washington. He shudders at the sight of thin, weak soldiers and the graveyard that holds the most unfortunate of them.

Washington nods at him, “Please, my dearest Marquis, my attention is all yours.”

“Hamilton.” Lafayette looks at his commander. Washington has aged these months. He walks with his usual stiffness but his wince of pain gives away how his joints ache. 

Lafayette heard about Hamilton’s abduction back in France. He ripped open every letter from America for months, scanning them for news that the Colonel had returned to his military family.

“I have made inquiries, nearly begged. I have received only one response. Negotiations are not open for Mr. Hamilton until _he_ makes them. What can this mean, Marquis?”

Lafayette shrugs, “A ploy, Your Excellency. To confuse you. Drive up the bargain.”

“Our offers are outrageous as it is.”

“Then we turn to a new plan. My dearest tailor, Mulligan, I believe could be of some assistance. Sneaking into the Major’s home. Retrieving our lost Colonel.” He further details his plot. They will sneak a letter to Hamilton directly through Hercules Mulligan, currently spying on the British men in New York. Send in several Sons of Liberty to raid the house. Retrieve Hamilton in the same fashion he was captured.

“It’s dangerous. They could kill him. Others could be killed.” Washington shakes his head.

“Hamilton is worth the risk.”

“I never said he was not! I know his value and value him more than any. The risk is not worth hurting him.”

Lafayette puts his hands up in surrender, “Your Excellency, I do not mean offense. Only that our tactic has been to hit them quick then to get out fast. It is proven. It is the same as they have done to obtain our little lion.”

“And killed six of our men.”

“Then let us make red coats redder and return the favor. There was no honor in Hamilton’s capture. They now do not follow the rules of exchange. Are we not ruffians?”

Washington sighs. He is quiet for a long time. Then, resolved at last, he speaks. “I trust you to speak with Major Tallmadge on the intelligence in New York. If your plot is still feasible after this, you have my leave.”

“Sir, we simply must get your right hand man back.” He grins roguishly at the General. Lafayette always did like a good tactical attack.

\---

André receives orders to join the siege at Charlestown in South Carolina. For the second time in his military career, he feels intense objections to leave his city of command. The last time he left a city he lost his lover to another. 

The rest of his men cheer with excitement. Action after a long winter is balm to the soul. They scatter to prepare for the leave. André is left with the papers in the large dining room. Alone, but for an audience of one.

Hamilton is there when the order comes. His face is unreadable. André fears that clever mind will turn to thoughts of escape. Hamilton has expressed little desire to return to the rebels since they became lovers. But André has little confidence that Hamilton would be loyal to him given the opportunity

And yet he tries anyway.

“Come with me.” André says suddenly.

“What?” Hamilton’s expression is still guarded.

André grabs his shoulders, “Come with me. Make your name as my lieutenant. Together we’ll be the greatest team there’s ever been, Alexander! Dreams, the way _we_ planned them, if we work in tandem -”

“John.” Hamilton interrupts loudly and silence overtakes the room. 

André’s heart plummets.

“Please.”

“Don’t make me choose, John. I’m afraid it won’t be in your favor.” 

André straightens himself. “I thought you had better sense than that.” He nearly growls with the desperate energy growing inside him.

“I decline your offer.”

“I am trying to protect you!”

“I will not fight with you!”

“Listen-”

“How do you not get that I am a rebel?!”

“I love you!” André shouts back. “And you are a _traitor_ and I am a _fool_ for loving a traitor! If you will not come as my _soldier_ , nor as my _lover_ , you _will_ come as you are still my _prisoner_ , Alexander!”

Hamilton hits him then. 

André pushes him into the table. 

Hamilton returns the volley with his own shove. 

André pulls Hamilton by the hair into a violent kiss. 

Hamilton responds by punching André in the gut.

André hits Hamilton over the head with a closed fist.

Hamilton grabs André’s head with both hands and kisses him roughly.

André claws at Hamilton's neck, drawing blood.

They smash into the table together.

André bites into Hamilton’s neck, pulling away the tight collar of his shirt. Fabric tears in his clenched fingers. Hamilton scratches at André’s hands. He then pulls at André’s pantstrings. André manhandles him against the table. Hamilton screams. André pauses.

“Do it. Now.” Hamilton demands, pulling down his own pants. 

André complies. He doesn’t even attempt to prepare Hamilton for his brutal first thrust. The tight heat is bliss. He is only dimly aware that he may be injuring his lover. He can’t seem to stop though. He wants Hamilton to hurt. Just as much as he has these weeks. 

The table thumps loudly beneath them.

“More.” Hamilton is shoving back against him. André growls loudly and complies. He grabs at the dark hair in front of him and smashes Hamilton's head onto the table, a loud _thud_ sounding from the connection. Hamilton screams again. It isn’t smart, being so obvious. Any moment someone could walk in. 

André thrusts with abandon. 

The pain is sweet. Hamilton thrives in it.

“ _More_ , you Redcoat bastard!” Hamilton slams his hand on the table. André responds with brutal force. He feels Hamilton clench down on him as in orgasm and follows after with a savage scream.

They tumble to the ground. 

Silence descents once more on the house.

“Are you trying to get us hanged?” Hamilton speaks first. It could be a joke. It’s a morbid one if it is, coming too close to the truth of their risks. But he could be serious too.

André stays quiet. Now that the anger is gone, he is numb. He stares up at the ceiling.

Hamilton tries again, “John, you have to know that. I can’t sacrifice my ideals. Even for you.”

“Even for me.” André repeats. 

“I do care about you, John.”

André opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by a noise of choked startlement squeaks from the door. Hamilton realizes he has put himself at a disadvantage when his legs won’t respond to his brain’s command to _Get. Up. Now!_

A man stands there with a wrapped package. Hamilton’s heart drops into his stomach.

 _Hercules Mulligan_?

Mulligan's fish-mouthed gape only lasts a beat. He puts a hand to his level of his eyes, shielding the couple from his view. André snaps to attention quicker, pulling himself back to rights. Hamilton struggles to cover himself from the floor.

Blood stains the front of André’s pants.

Mulligan coughs, “ _Sir_ , I beg pardon for the intrusion. The door was _open_. I have a delivery for _Mr_. Hamilton, his pants are mended.” He stretches his arm wide to put the parcel on the table, as if he can’t bear to take one step closer into the room.

Hamilton finds the strength in himself to pull himself up and grab it before André does. Whatever wits that haven’t been shocked from him knows he sent nothing out to be mended and that this is part of a plot.

Mulligan glares at him openly.

If André thinks on it, he too would realize that Hamilton could not possibly get an order out without André’s say. But André looks too stunned to think very clearly.

“Oh, thank you sir, I think the servant paid you when she brought these in?” Hamilton turns to André, who is still motionless, “I spilled candle wax on them last week. Burned a hole. I sent them with Abigail.”

“Yes, _sir_. The miss paid in full. I’ll be off then, _gentlemen_.” Mulligan coughs again and, with one quick look of disgust at them both, leaves.

They hear the door open and slam shut.

André takes Hamilton by the elbow, “We’re damned now. If that man speaks. Nevermind, we have to get cleaned up and you tended to.” He drags them up the stairs. Hamilton, being more experienced in these matters, takes to tending to his wounds both inside and out in his bedroom. André sits on his bed, after having changed into a fresh uniform. 

“He’ll think I raped you. Did you see how he looked at me? That disgust! And these marks!” André looks at the scratches across the backs of his hands. “I shall truly pay for my sins now they’ve revisited me. Oh, this irony!”

Hamilton has too many thoughts crowding his head to think on André’s words. He had managed to read curled piece of paper tucked into the pocket of the pants Mulligan sent before André returned: _SOL._ Three letters. The Sons of Liberty. A message to establish contact. If Hamilton had only _waited_...

They clasp hands, sitting there on the bed. That hot, violent anger from before is gone. They have nothing more to say to one another. The air is thick with a feeling of impending doom. Hamilton isn’t as worried about being executed as a sodomite or a rapist as André clearly is. Mulligan won’t tell the British louts, surely.

But then a stern General calls for André to report to him downstairs. André kisses Hamilton deeply, one last time. He then straightens his shoulders and gives a shuddering sigh before he leaves.

Hours pass. Hamilton is alone with his thoughts. André doesn’t return. The General does.

“I have sent a message to your men. They will receive you at the border. I have a trusted gentleman who has offered to escort you. Major André will be dealt with -"

“Please, sir, don’t hurt him!” Hamilton can’t help himself. Even in the face of his freedom, he can’t stay silent if another suffers for his actions. He can't bear the thought of André's fiery body going lifeless.

The General clears his throat loudly and glares at him, “The Major will be reprimanded and ordered to remain silent on this affair. There is one condition to your release. Do not send your men after him for his brutality towards you. I want your word. If accusations come, I fully expect him to be _hurt_.” 

Hamilton nods and hangs his head.

“Speak!”

“Nobody needs to know.”

\---

Hercules Mulligan waits for him outside, holding the reins of two well kept horses. So, he did reveal them and he is now the “trusted gentleman” to be his escort. André was right about the irony of the day. This is no happy homecoming, as Hamilton previously fantasized about. Mulligan is stony faced. Hamilton pulls himself onto the nag with difficulty. Good. Let it hurt. 

They ride in silence for hours. Hamilton feels sticky blood pooling beneath him. He thanks himself for the foresight of putting wadded cloth where it was sorely needed but he fears it won’t be enough.

They are near the exchange point before Mulligan turns to him.

“I have to tell him.”

“Herc, listen-” 

“You’ve been in bed with the enemy. I gave that bullshit story to that redcoat-bitch-general but you and me know what I saw.” Mulligan spits towards Hamilton’s horse. “Fuck you!”

Hamilton shakes his head miserably. “You wouldn’t understand.” 

“Fuck you!”

They ride the remainder in silence. 

Lafayette is there to greet them. He smiles broadly and jumps off his horse to run towards them. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees their faces. 

“What’s happened?” He demands.

Mulligan shakes his head, “No, Laf, this is for the General’s eyes only. Ham can tell you himself.” He hands over a letter to Lafayette. 

He does look at Hamilton then, sadly, “Ham, I’m glad you’re alive.” He tips his hat at them and rides away, guiding the other horse alongside his own.

Lafayette raises his eyebrows at Hamilton, “Hamilton…”

Hamilton bursts into tears. Loud, shuddering, heartbreaking tears. Lafayette hugs him tightly. Hamilton tries to push away.

“No, _mon ami_ , you will hate me as Herc does, as Washington will. I’m worse than a deserter, I’m...” He breaks off into more heart wrenching tears. He tries again to explain just _what_ he is but his throat keeps getting choked with sobs. 

Lafayette opens the letter, against Hercules demand, reads it, and then folds it up again.

He pulls Hamilton into another embrace.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, _mon ami_.” Lafayette whispers, “Let me tell the General myself, no silly letters. Let us walk now. What happened?”

Hamilton spills it all out then, choking for breath at times and shouting at others. His magnificent prison, the Major’s kindness, the months of waiting, his affair, his refusal to join with the British…

“I’m no traitor, Laf! I’m just...I don’t know what I am.” 

But Lafayette just strokes his hair, “ _Mon ami_ , you are not to blame for your confusion. Capture is bad for the mind. I hold you in no less regard for your survival - yes, _survival_. In the mind and in the body. And we move forward, as my dear Mulligan might say, in the shit now. Let’s us, as he says, shovel it.”

\---

Washington face lights up when Hamilton walks through the door of Headquarters. Lafayette begs a brief audience with the General, preventing them from having their first moments alone. He warned Hamilton this was better. It keeps Washington from accusing Hamilton of hiding a love affair and worsening the situation.

Hamilton waits outside Washington’s office after receiving a boisterous greeting from the staff. He finds his desk perfectly together, correspondences already stacked there for his review. But he knows he cannot return to the position he once held. Things will not go back to the way they were, he fears.

He’s so tired. It’s been such an exhausting day. This morning he had woken up in a feather-bed with the enemy sleeping blissfully beside him. Now he is back in camp in a worn down wooden cabin hoping his lover doesn’t discharge him from his service.

It’s long past nightfall when the door opens.

“Hamilton.” Lafayette emerges from the office, grim faced. He clasp Hamilton on the shoulder and gives a strong squeeze. “He wants to see you.” He doesn't give Alexander a word of warning. He doesn't know what he would even say.

Washington is standing by the window. Hamilton feels the urge to rush into those arms and sob. It's been so many months since he laid eyes on his lover. But he knows he cannot go to him now. Washington’s expression is impassive. Hamilton wishes he would rant or scream. Even violence would be preferable.

“Sir?” Hamilton stands stick straight but is ready to supplicate on the ground if necessary. 

Washington speaks slowly, “I will give you one opportunity, one chance to explain yourself. Your friendship in the Marquis has earned you that. Tread lightly.” He seats himself at his desk. He looks drained, as if he though were made of stone that could crumble apart with too much force.

Hamilton is an orator by nature. He can normally choose his words with quick precision, his wit and impeccable memory is always at his disposal. He usually can play with emotions like they are a well tuned instrument. But he is scared now, like a child who knows nothing but his own fear. His voice comes out very small. 

“I’ve been unfaithful to you as a lover. I won’t deny it. You abandoned me there. You left me with the enemy for six months. I know we were in a poor state here but...” Hamilton is getting more upset with every word, every feeling from the last six months spilling out from him, “I waited for you! I wanted you! And you would not even negotiate! God damn! George, why did you not try to get me back?! You all but pushed me into his arms!"

Washington’s composure drops then, “Don't you dare spit these accusations at me! We thought you were dead for months! We sent at least a dozen letters since learning you lived through our own intelligence! _They_ refused to negotiate with _us!_ You thought I would...Do not accuse me of abandonment when I have mourned you and gone half mad without you!” He rummages through his desk then and produces a letter.

_March 20, 1780_

_General Washington,_

_I respectfully decline your offer for the release of above named prisoner. If said prisoner wishes to negotiate, trust that he will open communication himself. As it is, we have no further interests in negotiations on this matter._

_Major John André_

It is accompanied by a letter from Washington. Offering an absurd amount of prisoners in exchange for Hamilton.

Hamilton is shocked, relieved, and horrified all at once. It makes Hamilton want to vomit. He almost does. He had grown to trust the charming Major so fast and therein lies his fault.

André lied to him about the communications.

André lured him in with charm and company.

André tried to turn his coat. 

“He played me false.”

Washington turns away from him again, “Colonel Hamilton, I thank you for your service -”

“NO!” Hamilton shouts. If Washington dismisses him from the army, he doesn’t know if he will survive. He’ll be as good as dead. 

“What do you expect from me, Alexander? With _this_ ,” The General picks up the letter again and waves it at Hamilton, “in addition to your acknowledged affair with a British officer. I would be mad to keep you in my employ.”

“Nobody needs to know, sir! Nobody does, save yourself, Lafayette, Mulligan, and that Redcoat bastard. You’ve said it yourself: I am a creature of the revolution, I am _your man-_ ”

“Were you still _my man_ when you were his? Did he know that? Who played who false, Alexander?” Washington asks heatedly.

Hamilton settles down then. Tears spill down his cheeks. Slowly, he goes to his knees and bows his head. "Sir, I am a fool. I have been unfaithful to your good trust in me. I have wavered in my trust of you after long months away from your love. I am a knave and a villain. But I remain loyal to the Revolution and to you, my commander. I knew nothing of your efforts towards my safe return until this day. I am a fool for doubting you, after all your kindness and trust in me. Let me serve you still. Let me prove myself to you. I don't expect your love. I am unworthy of your love. I only hope for a chance to prove myself again to you.”

Hamilton - bastard, orphan, son of a whore, that he is - has never felt lower in his life.

Washington makes a choking sound. Silence descends on them. He gathers his wits.

“For God’s sake, Alexander, get up! Fine! You’ll escort Martha to Mount Vernon. Tomorrow. Where you will _stay_ unless I summon you back. That's an order _._ Now get out of my sight.”

Hamilton breathes out a long, shaky breath of relief. 

“Thank you, Your Excellency.”

“Leave me. Now.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.” Hamilton bows. He thinks he sees a tear streak down Washington’s face, but the shadows make him uncertain. He silently sobs all night in the empty War Room, unable to face the other aides. Somewhere upstairs he knows Washington suffers from a broken heart. He thought once that Washington would be the one to break his heart, but it seems the opposite is true. 

Maybe you can't hold a man like Alexander Hamilton.


	19. Summer of 1780

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I came up with too many ideas for future chapters and am expanding this fic five extra chapters. I like writing this so I'm okay with it.
> 
> Also, I've (very obviously) started listening to Hadestown again on repeat. off-broadway > broadway soundtrack.
> 
> EDIT: I've decided broadway is better than off-broadway. Turns out Amazon released the full soundtrack after I downloaded the limited one. I'm obsessed.

_May 1780_

_Road to Virginia_

The official word given to the staff and generals is that Colonel Hamilton will be resting at Mount Vernon to recover from his ordeal. Washington generously emphasizes in the announcement that Hamilton remains a treasured member of his military staff and is now serving a more relaxed but no less important task of protecting Martha Washington while minding his own recovery. He thanks Hamilton for his loyalty and bravery during his capture.

Later Lafayette confides in Hamilton that the General is nervous that any disrespect shown to Hamilton might reflect badly on troop morale. Hamilton is a hero upon his return from British captivity, especially as it appears as though he escaped without costing them anything. Hamilton doesn’t mind. The General’s words touch him.

Lafayette embraces him tightly, promises that he will work on the General in Hamilton’s absence and begs for Hamilton to write to him frequently. He says that Washington is having him, a native French speaker, write to state officials to urge them to send more troops and supplies and he is nervous his written English will be mistaken. Hamilton promises to review his writings, begs him to write back with frequency, and thanks him profusely for his friendship.

Martha Washington thanks Hamilton for his generosity in chaperoning her in front of the small farewell gathering and they head down the road. A few others ride behind them, and a small scouting party rides ahead. Otherwise, they are alone in the wagon.

He is grateful too that this is their method of transportation. His poor body likely would receive greater damage and risk infection if he tried a second day on horseback. Or at least require some stitches that would cause embarrassment with some doctor.

Martha, ever kind to him despite his past, speaks to him in a gentle rhythm. She talks about their winter at camp with a casualness that belies the terrifying nature of her words. She appraises Hamilton’s healthy pallor and asks after the books he has read these months. He responds politely, if not a bit stiffly. Her kindness soon soothes his nerves and he is grateful.

The soldiers quickly lose interest in their conversation and begin their own more rowdy ones.

“You know, the meanest dog you’ll ever meet,” Martha continues in that same lilting tone, “Is not the hound dog in the street. He bares his teeth, tears some skin, but that seems to be the worse of him.”

“Ma’am?” Alexander is confused by the turn of the conversation, which had previously been on Homer.

But she merely continues, ignoring his interruption.

“The dog you really have to dread is that one that howls inside your head. It’s him whose howling drives men mad, and a mind to its undoing.”

“Ma’am, I don’t understand.”

“I know of the affair, Alexander.” She whispers. 

His cheeks redden; he bows his head. 

“I stay judgment until I hear your explanation. George said that you were told we refused to negotiate? That would be a start.” She stares at him with icy blue eyes. 

Alexander answers her carefully, far more carefully than he had answered her husband the previous night.

“I waited for the exchange. For four months. He told me there was no word from our side. No one wanted me back. He was so nice, ma’am, Major André was. Nearly every night we talked about books or ideals or...”

“Matched wits?” She gently adds in.

“Yes. He is the model of a gentleman, ma’am. Or, he seemed to be. He told me that it was so bad at camp that we must have had nothing to negotiate with and I knew that wasn’t true and he said that no one was trying to get me back and -”

“Slow down, Alexander.”

“I doubted him.”

“André?”

“No, the General. Isn’t that stupid of me? _I_ doubted _him_. When it is me who betrayed him in the end. He should have dismissed me last night. I shouldn’t have fought him on it.”

Martha looks at him thoughtfully, “Alexander, you were with the enemy for months. You knew most of our secrets and strategies, our allies and positions. And you gave nothing away?”

Alexander looks at her with abject horror, “No, ma’am! I couldn’t possibly!” He sputters in his own defense.

“I thought so. Poor Culper would be hanging from a tree otherwise. Our men would have been slaughtered in a dozen separate ways. The ships would be at the bottom of the harbor. You are loyal to the Revolution, no matter what doubts you may have had.” 

She grabs his hand and kisses it. Tears are in her eyes but she smiles.

“They played a nasty trick on you, Alexander. Twisting your mind like that. No, listen now. He romanced you with books and sweetness while refusing you any communication outside his home. They captured you and then soothed the wounds they themselves made. It’s a manipulation that is more common than you know. Many captives fall for this game. It isn’t new. You’re not the first.”

Alexander had not quite thought of it that way, though he knew André had played him false. He knows now it was a manipulation but Mrs. Washington further eases his conscious with her words.

“He wanted me to turn coat, ma’am. I confess I considered it near the end.”

“But you _didn’t_ turn coat.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“And I’ve explained the same to George. It’s a common tactic with captives, Alexander, he knows it. Lull you into comfort and ease out secrets. Alexander, _we’ve_ used it. You’ll get your position back on the staff. It’s been hard enough without you, heaven knows. But you should rest some before returning. You have been through quite the ordeal and your soul needs healing.”

“Ma’am? I don’t deserve your kindness. I might not have betrayed the Revolution, but I betrayed _him_. For nearly a month I sought the arms of another. I don’t deserve him.”

Martha smiles.

“Alexander, if I believed that for a moment I would not be in this wagon with you. If he did not still love you, you would not be in this wagon with me. You’ve been terribly used these months. You need to heal. Then we will get him back." She laughs then and grabs his arm, “I’m much older than you, young man, with much more experience! You mark my words, we’ll get him back!”

She winks.

Alexander will never understand Martha Washington. But he will always be grateful to her for her attention to his soul on the road those days.

\---

_June 1780_

_Mount Vernon Estate, Virginia_

Alexander falls in love with the beauty of Mount Vernon immediately. (He tries to suppress his revulsion to the slaves he sees toiling in the field and fails. He spends each of his days there writing essays against slavery and insisting he can handle most tasks himself.) The grounds are immaculate. The house itself is enormous and still is undergoing construction to expand when Alexander arrives. 

Lund Washington, the manager of the estate and a distant cousin of the General, greets them with enthusiasm. His eyes flicker over to the half dozen other soldiers and he orders a servant to fetch them supplies. 

“For you, my sweet madam, I hope you will relax during your stay here.” He turns his charm on Mrs. Washington. Hamilton thinks that he sees some of George in those gray eyes, in addition to the sheer height that marks him a Washington. Hamilton again feels a surge of longing for his former lover.

Martha laughs and embraces him, “I certainly aim to after _that_ winter. Lund, this is Colonel Alexander Hamilton, who will be spending some time here before returning to our General.” She has slipped her arm through his arm and uses him as a support as she walks.

Lund gives a small bow, “A pleasure, Colonel. Your reputation precedes you. I am glad to meet you.” He says, walking with them through the front doors.

Martha waves him away, “I’ll show him to his room, dear.” And she brings Hamilton upstairs to the main bedchambers, the largest and most luxurious of the rooms in the mansion. 

Hamilton’s eyes take everything in. It’s grandeur beyond his expectations but cleverly enveloped in a simpleness that eases his anxiety. Washington lives here. This is his home. The one he meticulously designs, even during the war. This is Washington captured in wood and marble, colors and fabrics. Simple and elegant. This is Washington.

Hamilton is overwhelmed. He traces the outline of a door frame, feeling foolish. Could he fit in this world? He tried with André and found pleasure but no real sense belonging in it. A portrait of Washington as a younger man stares at him in the hallway.

Mrs. Washington must sense his apprehension.

“My dear, would you like to rest?” She leads him to a bright yellow bedroom. “You should change, and wash, and _rest_. Come to the gardens, when you feel ready. We will work on our first letter to our dear George.” 

She goes into another bedroom not far from him, presumably the main chamber.

He collapses on the bed. 

Mrs. Washington’s words and counseling made sense on the road. Alexander is no saint to withstand the psychological pressures of a spymaster like André. But if Washington himself understands that, would he ever take Alexander back knowing he had been another’s?

Another question nags his poor aching mind: did _André_ love him? He had been so certain those feelings were genuine, as much as Hamilton could not reciprocate. Those kisses were constant, demanding. Those embraces were passionate, fiery. Those nights…

Alexander rarely finds someone to match wits with (he thinks Mrs. Washington's phrase is exactly on the mark here). It felt like electricity, like Ben Franklin with a key and a kite. He felt that attraction. André, no matter how clever he is, cannot fake that. Right?

Alexander Hamilton does not love John André. He never tried to. The physical attraction was undeniable, but he has had too many lovers and knows that physical attraction does not always lend itself the affairs of the heart. André was a good lover and a way to ease his anger at Washington in the moment.

Alexander Hamilton loves George Washington. And he knows George Washington loves him. They are more than fire and passion, more than comfort and affection. They are neither a powder keg nor a well-tended garden. No, they are something else entirely that is everything and nothing Alexander has felt for another.

He needs Washington. He knows he is needed. That bastard André will not tear them apart like this. 

\---

André contemplates suicide.

And rejects it as too melodramatic. 

The General merely upbraided him, called him a series of impolite names and threatened imprisonment. But in the end, after revealing his plan to turn Hamilton’s coat, he is only told to keep his mouth shut. Unfortunately, the tailor had threatened to report the assault (as he saw it) to the magistrate.

So Alexander is sent back to the rebels, to his dear Washington, to ease a tailor’s conscience. 

Ridiculous.

It’s a terrible waste of months of careful planning, and he makes sure to let the General know that. The General scoffs and tells him to mind his cock in the future, as it might get cut off with another trick like that.

Was André not the spymaster, with freedom to choose his own tactics to get intelligence?

Ridiculous.

That first night is miserable. For the second time, he has lost a lover because of this damned war. It’s agony. If he had a death wish, he would ride into the rebel camp tonight to retrieve him. Hamilton is an idiot for refusing surefire advancement and the partnership of a man like John André. He is a fool for choosing the losing side.

André reopens communications with the Arnolds that very night. He is more determined than ever to suppress these rebels until they are ground into the dirt of this heinous land. Through one rebel or another, the British Army will be victorious. He makes Arnold a similar offer for a command, this time in exchange for intelligence instead of love.

When he is finished with his letter, he stops up his ink bottle and reads it over one last time. He mindlessly caresses the raised scratches on the back of his hand. When he realizes Hamilton truly won’t be with him that night, he betrays himself and sobs at his desk. 

A tear falls onto the letter and smears the ink. André crumples it and starts over.

\---

_June 1780_

_Battles of Connecticut Farms and Springfield_

Clinton tries to retake New Jersey. Hessian General Wilhelm von Knyphausen leads 6,000 men against local militia. Knyphausen unreasonably withdraws, despite his hold on the field, as he fears that Washington’s main army, nearby at Morristown, will slaughter them.

He is right, partially. Washington’s army does crush him two weeks later at Springfield. 

The British withdraw, their ambitions in New Jersey finally snuffed out. 

They continue on their Southern Strategy, leaving much of North sparsely occupied. Washington and Lafayette arrange for the French forces to take back New York. It’s an ambitious plan. It might just work if they can manage it while Clinton and Cornwallis are distracted in South Carolina and Georgia.

\---

_Summer 1780_

Unfortunately, Arnold returned contact with André nearly immediately, informing him Rochambeau’s French force headed towards Newport, Rhode Island. The intelligence gives Clinton time to prepare his troops in New York for the assault.

Washington withdraws troops from the area, to preserve supplies and men.

Arnold then offers André West Point, in New York, indicating that he soon would become Commandant there. He asks for 20,000 pounds for this treachery. He requests an individual audience with André, who is very hesitant to arrange such a dangerous meeting.

André misses the simplicity of seducing Alexander. He wishes he could have turned Alexander before their damned indiscretion ruined it all. He mourns the loss of an intelligent gentleman waxing poetic in his bedroom as the candles burn too low. He misses that hot body warming in his bed and those rough embraces.

He accepts Arnold’s offer to meet regarding West Point.

\---

Washington himself struggles without Hamilton, knowing that he is within his command and yet away in Virginia “healing.” Martha had sent several letters begging for Washington to take mercy on the poor boy, who is so young and susceptible to manipulations of British caliber. Any perceived romantic betrayal certainly can be minimized by the fact that he _did not betray the revolution_. He held out better than most could under that pressure. He was certain to fall for at least one of the British tricks. The body is so much more feeble than the mind...

And Alexander still loves him.

He knows she is right. But his heart hurts whenever he thinks of another putting their hands on Alexander. Or Alexander putting his hands on another. He feels betrayed. But he can't help but still love Alexander. Longs to forgive him.

Martha's letters are accompanied by Alexander's own. He swears he is Washington's own love, unworthy and foolish, but his very own. Hamilton's words flood his better senses. Those sentences leave Washington defenseless, as Alexander builds palace and cathedrals out of paragraphs. 

Those letters are always accompanied by delicately folded paper flowers.

In late July he sends the letter for Alexander’s return.

\---

_August 1780_

The Battle of Camden smothers Washington’s hope for a successful campaign to retake New York. General Gates, who led the scattered force in an embarrassing defeat, is dismissed and replaced by Nathaniel Greene. Washington recalls Lafayette as well, who had been preparing his overpaid troops for the New York campaign.

Alexander arrives in the moment of this disappointment and redirection. Washington is at the DeWint House in Orangetown, New York, by mid-August, having spent a few days at General Arnold’s Headquarters and then the Talmans in the weeks prior.

Washington, usually the picture of perfection, looks harried. He has removed his coat - for _once_ \- in the hot summer heat. His cravat is even thrown on the desk. The makeshift War Room is a mess of papers. The rest of the staff is equally at various stages of undress in the heat, the decorum relaxed this afternoon as they plot a particularly difficult strategical position.

Alexander, without an official greeting, immediately jumps in the middle of the fray. He works alongside the aides, getting caught up on the intelligence and allies, the duties and tasks. Harrison begs him to sort through correspondences later in the day, and gives him an impressive stack. Another - a new one - steals him to write a dispatch. Tench just hugs him tightly and threatens his life if he dares leave them again.

Washington gives him orders without hesitation. It buoys Hamilton’s spirit. By nightfall, he is sweat soaked with the rest of them. The General finally dismisses them late in the night. They haven’t eaten or taken breaks all day. They clamor outside in hopes of a cool night breeze (and to get some air outside that damned house).

It leaves Hamilton and Washington alone at last. 

They hadn’t been alone together since that November day in 1779, nearly 9 months prior. So much as happened between them while they were apart. The fragility of their love crackles in the air. Hamilton knows he cannot make the first move. He must react to whatever Washington decides to do.

Washington stares at him openly and speaks.

“Alexander.” 

That’s it, just his name.

So Hamilton responds. He remembers what Washington told him once about the use of titles in private. He takes a chance.

“ _George_.”

Washington shudders involuntarily.

“I’ve missed you.”

“Not more than I’ve missed you.”

“Alexander….”

“I won’t mislead to you, sir. I fully intend to be back in your bed by the end of summer and stay there until the end of our days.” Hamilton says bluntly.

Washington actually laughs. “Is that so? Bold, Mr. Hamilton, considering.”

Hamilton takes the advantage he sees in that laugh, “Now, George, I believe we’ve talked about titles in private!” He gives a cheeky grin and puts his hands loosely on his hips. He’s flirting openly with his commander and it makes his blood run hot. Beads of sweat run down the sides of his face. He, in contrast to his General, is still in full uniform. He intends the blue coat to emphasize his loyalty to the Revolution.

Washington’s eyes darken, “I want you.” He can be blunt too. “I’m afraid I won’t be kind to you if I have you tonight.”

“Good.”

“No. We will go slow. As you said yourself that day, we must go slow or we risk hurting one another.” 

_Damn_.

Hamilton sighs, “I suppose that is the wisest path.” He looks into those dark eyes and falls, if possible, more in love, “Sir, can you possibly forgive me? I’ve caused you so much pain.”

“I have not forgiven you,” Washington says and Hamilton can’t help the pained look that crosses his face. “ _yet_. Alexander, I will undoubtedly forgive you given time. This old heart doesn’t heal as it once did in my youth, especially after the blow it has been dealt. There is one medicine it may require tonight, however.”

“Yes.”

“Your kiss.”

Alexander has never crossed a room so fast. Washington cups the back of his head gently and bestows the chastest kiss on his lips.

The contrast to André’s more brutal passion is stark.

And Alexander knows in that moment he has made the right choice. He leans up to capture the General’s lips in a second, more passionate kiss, holding onto Washington’s shirt tightly.

“I love you, George.” He breathes, “I will make you see that once again. I am _yours_.”

“Yes.” 

They come together in another sweet kiss.

\---

_September 21, 1780_

_Rebel Occupied New York_

André dons a rebel uniform for his meeting with Arnold. The American traitor requires André to meet him at the home of Joshua Hett Smith, whom they both are friends with, inside the American lines in New York. He can’t shake his feeling of foreboding. He takes no chances at being discovered as a British officer on their territory, especially after that debacle with Hamilton. 

It is Alexander’s uniform, still in his possession and cleaned up, that he wears to the meeting.

When he catches view of himself in a mirror, his heart lurches.

When the dinner has concluded, and Arnold receives promises of payment for his treachery, André finds that the sloop previously anchored for his return has vanished.

“Damn.” 

“We’ll have to cross overland, sir.” Smith intones beside him, having escorted him to the river. It’s a long journey. Smith escorts André further overland, right up until the last 15 miles.

André continues on in the dark. His feet hurt and his mind is concerned only with making these last miles so he can rest safely on his side of the line. He doesn't care to quiet his steps or his breathing. 

“Hey!”

André turns and feels relief. A trio of British soldiers walk quickly toward him, guns drawn.

“Stand down, men! As a major of His Majesty’s army I command you to give way!” 

They do not lower their arms.

“You hear that, boys,” One says. In a rough American accent. “We got ourselves a Major.”

“I command-”

“You don’t command us! General _Washington_ commands us!” The lout grins. Not British. Americans in disguise.

 _Oh no_ …

They easily find Arnold’s papers hidden in his boot and take André under arrest for espionage.

“Let’s see what the General wants to do with this Redcoat bastard!”


	20. The Prisoner Below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much violence. Much Sex.

Hamilton sets the bolt in the door. Washington is already there, in the corner of the room, washing his face in a basin of cold water. They both know it is tonight. Nervousness flutters in their stomachs. 

“Sir?” 

“Alex.” 

Hamilton stands at the door for a long moment. Washington towels off his face before holding out a hand. The aide-de-camp takes it, kisses it once, twice. Then their lips are together and warmth floods their bodies.

Washington undoes the tie in Alexander’s hair, letting that black silk of hair fall across his fingers. He cards it in his hands while pressing Alexander ever closer to him.

Alexander breaks away with some effort, “Say you trust me.” He demands, holding his hands against Washington’s chest to push himself away.

Washington does not scoff at him for this display of insubordination. They are equals behind closed doors. Alexander may ask anything of him and Washington will be hard pressed to deny him.

“I trust you, Alex, I trust you.” Washington croons back in his ear. He is desperate for Alexander’s body now that the waiting is over. Now that the bonds are mended and the heart is almost healed.

“And I am yours?”

“You are _mine_.”

“And you are mine?”

“Yes, dear gods, I am yours. I have always been yours!”

“ _George_.” He rarely says his lover’s given name, even in private. It’s perfect now. Washington groans and crushes Alexander against his body. Then he picks that slight frame up into his arms, bridal style and lays him down on the bed with utmost gentleness.

Items of clothing come off one by one. Washington runs his large hands over Hamilton’s smaller body. His touch covers nearly every bit of skin. Hamilton mews with contentment. He laces their hands together.

“Take me.”

And aren't those the sweetest words anyone has ever spoken?

Washington takes his time retrieving the oil bottle from the drawer he stashed it in this morning. Alexander watches him impatiently from the bed. He spreads his legs suggestively. It speeds Washington up.

The first touch burns in its slow possession of him. Alexander feels his muscle relax with the rhythm Washington sets for him. One day, likely sooner than later, Alexander will insist on something rougher, something closer to their first time together at Valley Force. Tonight feels more sacred than that though. Hamilton can’t help thinking that this is a wedding night of sorts. Souls will bond tonight.

As Washington’s finger slid in and out and those dark eyes watch his reactions, Alexander thinks too that, in the few times they have engaged in penetrative sex, they have not done so facing one another. Tonight will be the first time he watches Washington’s face as he enters, thrusts, _claims_. The thought of it is almost enough to overwhelm Hamilton.

It’s as sweet as Alexander imagined. Washington’s eyes flutter closed as he pushes into Hamilton’s yielding body. Hamilton’s heart beats a little faster. 

They work hard to keep quiet during their lovemaking. There are still others in Headquarters despite the late hour; Mr. Wadsworth, the owner of the home, is asleep in one of these bedrooms. But the odd grunt or groan that escapes one makes the other smile.

Hamilton grabs the bed post when Washington hits that sweet spot deep inside him. He put the other hand over his own mouth, to stop the cry that he wishes he could let out. 

Washington takes his time taking Hamilton apart and, thrust by thrust, kiss by kiss, he keeps that clever mouth quiet. He finds it difficult to stay quiet himself but manages it somehow. It’s all too much but he weathers it someway. 

It all builds up impossibly almost to the point of no return. He feels he should warn Alexander and he knows that he won’t be able to find the words. But he needs Alexander to come first this time. Oiling his palm once more, he grabs the cock in front of him and thumbs the head. So close…one more slick caress...another deep thrust.

It’s all they need to go tumbling together into oblivion.

\---

Hamilton lay on Washington’s broad chest afterwards, playing with the coarse dark hair he finds there. Washington gently strokes his hair, shoulders, face, anywhere his hands can reach. 

They cuddle in the afterglow and Alexander is content.

\----

A gentle knock comes late in the night. The General and his chief aide-de-camp lay naked under the sheets. Alexander snuffs but does not wake immediately. Washington is tempted to let him sleep, if they did not need to snap back to appearances for the late-night caller.

Another series of knocks. A voice. It's Lafayette. “Your Excellency, an urgent matter that needs your attention.” A pause. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, _Hamilton_.” 

So Alexander’s presence in the General’s bed that night was not as covert as they led themselves to believe.

Well, then.

They dress quickly and open the door to the far too alert Marquis. Lafayette is positively buzzing with a nervous energy that already gives Washington a headache. The Marquis's eyes flick between the two men. Thankfully, he delivers his news almost immediately.

“We have John André. Found behind our lines, dressed as one of your staff, sir.” His gaze falls on Hamilton, who has gone suddenly pale, “He is downstairs. General, with all respect due to you, you have to _hurry_.”

Washington recovers first from the shock, “Take him to the cellar. Put him under heavy guard. Don’t let him get away. Leave me with Alexander for a moment, please, Marquis. I will be down after.” 

The Marquis nods and jumps away to the task.

Hamilton is having a hard time breathing. He thinks he is entering a state of panic. The news hits all the harder after such a blissful night.

“Alex, are you alright?” Washington puts a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Why is he here?” Alexander gulps in air and closes his eyes against the pressure in his chest. Washington kisses his forehead and then, very gently, shakes his shoulders.

Washington’s voice is stern when he speaks, “Alex, look at me. Good. I have to question him.” He kisses him fiercely. “S _tay here_. That’s an order.” 

Then Washington is gone.

\---

André is tied with his arms around a beam in the cellar. He is indeed in the uniform of one of Washington's military staff. Bruises cover his handsome features.

Washington observes him in silence. This is the man that held his Alexander from him for all those months. The man who toyed with their lives and manipulated a young man until he broke. 

André meets his eyes with a defiance that makes Washington’s blood boil.

“Major,” Washington begins, “You are found on the wrong side of the line. I wonder at your boldness, sir.”

André scoffs but stays silent.

“Tallmadge.” Washington’s voice is flat.

Tallmadge grins as he smashes his foot into André’s shoulder.

André’s grunts. He stays silent. Despite his rank, he does not receive the same treatment others receive. He is a proven spy and will be treated as such.

They continue like that for some time. The Major is gasping for breath by morning. He probably has more than a few broken bones. 

They confront him on the papers found in his possession, the uniform he was found in, the contacts he had in the army. 

The soldiers, and Tallmadge, take turns inflicting violence on him. They have enough from André’s papers, and the intelligence that led to those three men to know where to find André, to send Lafayette and his men after Arnold, still at West Point, in fear that the surrender would take place without swift action.

Washington watches it all with impressive neutrality. He stays Tallmadge’s hand when the young Major goes too far. He does not glare or insult André, though he would certainly be justified. He leaves the prisoner to his thoughts when it is clear that no answers are forthcoming.

 _As stubborn as Alexander_.

Washington freezes at his own thoughts. He manages to keep Alexander, safe upstairs, out of his mind during the failed interrogation. He refuses to allow himself to compare this villain with his sweet Alexander.

\---

The young aide-de-camp is giving directions in the _War Room_ when Washington emerges from the cellar. He is the picture of calm. Which is precisely how Washington knows just how shaken Alexander truly is. The rest of the staff seems unaware of the situation below.

“Hamilton.” The General motions for his chief aide-de-camp. Hamilton gives a few more parting instructions to an aide and rushes to the General.

Washington leads them outside.

“Sir?” Hamilton leans against the house side. He takes deep breaths of the morning air. The initial panic of last night has subsided into a throbbing awareness of his own heartbeat.

“He won’t talk. We don’t need him to. We have Arnold’s treachery well documented enough through the ring.”

Hamilton can’t help but feel relieved that André is not fickle enough to betray his men, even if they are Hamilton’s enemies. But he feels some dread in the pit of his stomach too at this. If André won't offer information…

“Sir, what will we do with him?”

Washington looks to the ground and clears his throat, “Go back to your work, Hamilton.” He doesn’t wait for Alexander’s protests, “That’s an order. You can’t be near this. Your name cannot be connected with his anymore than it already is. You can’t be tied to this treachery.”

Alexander can’t help himself. “Will you kill him?” He asks. 

It is immediately apparent that he should have remained silent. Washington leans very close to him, his lips almost touching Hamilton's ear. His grip hurts Hamilton's wrist.

“Do not _dare_ beg me for your lover’s life.”

Hamilton pulls back violently, “No! Sir, that’s not what I-”

Washington rearranges his features as best as he can. The look he manages is angry but not enraged as Hamilton knows he truly is. “Go. Back. To. Work. Now.” He manages through gritted teeth.

Hamilton bows and scurries back into the work room.

\---

Washington and Tallmadge reenter the cellar later that afternoon without additional guards. They intend to let the British Major know that formal proceedings will be brought if no information is provided. The clear threat is that a trial will result in his execution.

André looks far worse for wear. He barely lifts his head to acknowledge his visitors or their words.

André is done with his silence, however.

“Does he scream?” André asks quietly.

Washington and Tallmadge exchange confused looks.

“Does _Alexander_ scream when you _fuck_ him, General?” André turns his ice gray eyes onto Washington then. Talmadge is stunned into silence. The implication is clear enough to Washington.

André continues with a smirk and makes himself perfectly clear to all, “The little whore certainly screamed when I _fucked_ him. _Begged_ me to-” He barely gets the last bit out. Washington is on him, beating him senseless. Tallmadge shakes himself out of his stun and attempts to pull the General away. He is unsuccessful. Washington’s usually carefully contained strength has been unleashed.

Tallmadge calls for help and two additional men leap down the cellar stairs to assist pulling the General away from André. 

Washington breathes out ragged breaths into the air. Blood covers his front. André’s nose and mouth pour red down his own front. 

The General, still held back by Tallmadge, growls at André, “If you say his name again, I’ll rip you apart with my own hands!” And he stomps back up the stairs. 

\---

George Washington paces in his room afterward. He has never lost control in front of his men before, with the exception being the night Alexander was stabbed. He has never been so blinded by rage that he almost kills a man with his bare hands. He knows he is strong. He could have killed André. He _tried_ to kill André.

Now that he has seen that handsome face he can imagine them together all the more. He can perfectly picture Alexander’s face screwed up in passion as that vile man...

Hamilton comes into the room during this nightmare reverie. And gasps.

“ _George_!” He cries, forgetting titles in his horror. He looks at Washington’s bloodied shirt and hands. “What have you done?!”

Washington sees red again. Now that his anger on this subject has been unleashed, he is scared that might hurt Alexander too. He clenches and unclenches his fists methodically. It helps, in a way.

“He’s alive.” 

Hamilton shakes his head, “You shouldn’t have done that.” Though, in truth, he doesn’t know exactly _what_ Washington has done. The blood and rage is enough for Hamilton to connect it to the prisoner below.

“Kept him alive? No, I should have snapped his neck!”

“No, you shouldn’t have shown him your anger. He goaded you, right? He won.”

“If internal bleeding is a prize then he certainly has deserved it.”

Hamilton gives him a long hard stare. That clever mind is at work, Washington knows. Hamilton nods, as if making some decision, and locks the door behind him. He stomps over to Washington. With strength Washington did not know Alexander possessed, he pushes Washington backwards, until his legs collide with the bed and he falls onto it. Washington tries to get up but Hamilton straddles his hips, holds his shoulders down.

And kisses him. Hard.

“It is not the time -” Washington tries to talk around this assault.

Alexander only pulls away to grab at the side table. He pushes a small glass bottle into Washington's hand. 

“It is the perfect time. You are going to fuck me now.”

“Have you lost your senses?”

“You nearly killed a man over me. Show me that I am yours. _Fuck_ _me_.”

Which, though the logic is not sound, makes sense to Washington in the moment. He flips Hamilton under him and presses him into the mattress. He nearly tears those tight pants in ripping them down shaking thighs.

Alexander wants this.

Washington needs this.

He makes quick work of the preparation. Alexander relaxes easier after being taken the previous night. But then he takes control again. He pushes Washington back down onto the bed and pulls down his trousers with only a little difficulty. 

Alexander stares into his lover’s eyes as he pushes back to be filled.

“I’m yours. Your own. Yours. I love you. Only you. Always. Just you. Yours. I’m yours.” He babbles as Washington thrusts up into him. The babbles and the thrusts go in tune. Washington joins with his own words of possession. When Washington finally releases himself into the taut body above him, his anger goes too. 

“ _Yours_.” Alexander whispers, draped over his lover after he himself has spilled across Washington’s still bloody shirt. His seed mixes with Washington’s sweat and, though he tries not to think of it, André’s blood. He feels Washington’s breath catch in his chest.

“ _Mine._ ”

\---

Washington does not permit Alexander to speak with André, though he asks if he might be useful in that way. André had confirmed Arnold’s treachery to Tallmadge after Washington had knocked his better sense from him. Along with a few other highly confidential secrets. Tallmadge is given full credit, as he rightly should be, for André’s capture and confession.

But Benedict Arnold gets away. He defects to the British army. His wife, Peggy Arnold, is left behind in rebel territory. She is placed under house arrest.

Alexander only sees John André one more time in life. A few weeks later, on October 2, 1780, only eleven days after André’s capture, Alexander stands by Washington, dressed in his best uniform and coat, a hat uncharacteristically covering his hair. George Washington is also dressed in his best, as are the rest of the officers observing that day’s execution.

John André stumbles on the stairs of the gallows. His handsome face is sallow and he shakes when they put the noose around his neck. When he looks up, he catches Alexander’s eyes.

And nods to him. 

Alexander, despite himself, feels his throat thicken with tears. He then wishes he had found a way to have one final conversation with André. There is so much he has to ask, that he has to know. Now that clever head is trapped in a noose and Alexander will never _know_!

Hamilton starts to sway. Washington grabs his wrist in a vice grip, silently warning him against a display or grief or passion. There are too many here and, somehow, Hamilton’s name has been kept safely apart from André’s schemings.

The noise made when André is pushed from the wooden floor is horrifying. The sight of his struggle is worse.

Hamilton wants to look away. He needs to look away. He can’t look away…

André’s body sways slowly in the autumn breeze.

Hamilton can’t look away.


	21. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I broke my own heart with this chapter.

André visits Alexander’s dreams every night after the execution. Almost always it’s his hanging. Sometimes Hamilton is the hangman. André’s body sways in the breeze. Those intelligent eyes dull to the world. That clever mind finally quieted. Those lips hanging open in a dead man’s scream.

Sometimes André wakes up, one more time. 

_I think I love you, Alexander_.

Hamilton never answered him, refused to acknowledge it. Now he is forced to almost every night in his dreams. 

_I don’t want to be alone. I need you._

_I love you. And you are a traitor and I am a fool for loving a traitor._

_I admire you, for all you are._

André’s smooth voice haunts him. André is still romancing him from the grave. They debate the merits of hanging versus being stabbed in his dreams. André tortures Hamilton’s thoughts until he fears he will go mad. Maybe he is already mad. 

He screams during these dreams, especially in the moments after André is hung. _That struggle_. Those kicking legs. Those last gurgled sounds of a dying man. The swinging corpse.

Washington is forced to shake him violently awake each night. Hamilton is usually so far into the dream that a simple tap is insufficient. Tears streak down his face. He chokes on his own vomit. He sometimes does throw up. Washington learns to judge the shade of Alexander’s pallor on whether the basin is needed.

Washington, always, asks if he needs a doctor, to talk, _anything_.

But Hamilton can’t answer him. 

He has not spoken a word to anyone since André was silenced forever.

\---

Lafayette helps guide Alexander back into Headquarters that day. He sees that look on Alexander’s face and knows that something inside is breaking. Washington can’t be seen leaving the execution early and must stay until the bitter end, when they cut the traitor down and preserve the body for return to the British. He only glances down at his aide-de-camp and doesn’t seem to notice Hamilton’s reaction.

He did not look to see his lover’s face drain of color, nor those eyes dilate until they were completely black.

Lafayette drags Alexander to the front door, sweating under the slight frame, since Hamilton’s legs seem to have forgotten how to walk halfway there. Tench meets them on the path and quickly appraises the situation. With a knowing nod, the two men carry Alexander up to the General’s bedroom, avoiding the stares of the other aides as they go up the staircase. 

Hamilton is glassy-eyed and otherwise expressionless. He remains on the bed where they lay him and stares out the window. Lafayette gently removes Alexander’s hat and smooths his hair back.

“Shock?” Tench asks nervously. He knows Alexander was with this André character during his captivity. He expected that Hamilton would have been elated to watch an enemy swing, especially a British spy and captor like André. 

Lafayette grunts in agreement. Tench scratches his head and disappears back downstairs. There is the always unspoken understanding that they do not talk about Alexander’s eccentricities with the others.

“Come now, Alexander, _mon petit lion_. What is the matter?” Lafayette sits on the edge of the bed and strokes Hamilton’s back affectionately.

No response.

“Alexander?" Lafayette shakes him gently. 

No response.

Another, rougher shake.

Nothing.

“Alexander! Alexander! Pour tous les cieux et les âmes! Mon dieu! Peux-tu m'entendre? Mon cher ami!” He turns Alexander over to look at him but he knows that those eyes see nothing. Hamilton is still breathing slowly, steadily. _Shock_ , he prays, _let it be shock._ He calls for Tench again, begs him to get the General. Tell him Colonel Hamilton is ill. He is very ill and he needs the General _now_. Hamilton is ill.

Shortly after, Washington sweeps into the room and takes over Lafayette’s place at Hamilton’s side.

“Alex, look at me.” No response. “Alexander. Please, what’s wrong?” Nothing. “Hamilton!”

“He will not speak, sir.” Lafayette provides from his position near the bed, his arms crossed with one hand on his chin. 

“Get the medic.”

“Yes, sir.”

The medic provides them with the diagnosis they already knew: shock. Treatment is rest and gentleness for the next few days.

Hamilton continues to stare into oblivion. 

Lafayette thinks he may be able to hear them, but can’t help himself from reprimanding General Washington in hushed tones. When Washington moves to silence him, Lafayette does the unthinkable and drags the Commander from the bedroom by his arm. Washington, stunned, does not fight back as he is tugged into the hallway.

“Sir, what the devil were you thinking bringing him to _that_!” Lafayette is fuming now. His mind makes sense of this whole situation of being _Washington’s_ fault. Hamilton is the General’s responsibility and he has been poorly treated this day, considering what they both know about Alexander’s captivity.

“He needed to see it!” Washington hisses back, appalled by Lafayette’s implication. Hamilton’s state is certainly not _his_ doing!

“No,” Lafayette stomps his foot, “ _you_ needed him to see it! _Mon dieu_ , the horror of it!” He lowers his voice to barely a hiss of a whisper. “He watched his lover die this day!”

Washington reddens, “That villain was a traitor who manip-”

“All the same.” Lafayette is far beyond politeness or respect, interrupting his commanding officer, “Alexander knew this man. _Cared_ for him. Even if he was deceived, Alexander felt...and now…”

They go silent. 

Washington _had_ wanted Hamilton to watch his lover swing. It was a sick part of Washington’s soul that needed Hamilton to see that this contender was gone and that Washington was the victor.

Especially after what that traitor said about him in the cellar…

Alexander did not object to attending, though he had been more quiet than usual that morning. He stood sturdy and still at the start of it. Then that villain nodded towards them. At Hamilton. Washington could not have predicted a doomed man would be so bold. 

Washington only felt Alexander go weak after that nod. He should have turned Hamilton away from the gallows then and there. But he was so determined they not draw attention to themselves. That Hamilton would not go down with this man, but that he would see this man go down. Washington did not look at his lover's face and see him break.

Washington has the good grace to bow his head in shame. 

\---

That nod. 

André nodded to him right before he fell. He acknowledged Hamilton right to the end. His last sight on earth is Hamilton in a rebel uniform. After all that time together. Their dreams...André won’t see the glory of the Revolution. He will never see that Hamilton is _right_ about his choice.

André won’t see anything again.

Especially not Hamilton in a dashing red uniform, as he so wanted to see.

 _Our dreams_.

\---

The night of the execution is awful. It’s the first night terror and too vivid for Hamilton’s stunned brain. The adrenaline that courses through him from his shock makes it worse. He screeches into the night air, waking everyone in the house. Washington, alert immediately from his position next to Alexander, grabs him up.

Hamilton’s eyes don’t open. He continues screaming until Washington can make out a word.

“JOHN!” 

Washington slaps him awake, surprising himself with his reflex reaction. It’s the right one, apparently. Hamilton comes back to him then. Confused, eyes wide in terror. 

“Alex.” Washington soothes his temples with his fingers. But Alexander is still coming to, half stuck in his dream-memories. A vision surfaces in front of him: André cupping his face, promising his protection, _so long as he is alive_. It’s too much.

Hamilton vomits over the side of the bed, finding the presence of mind to maneuver himself to avoid spraying Washington with his sick. 

Washington calls the medic back. Same diagnosis: shock. Vomiting is normal, as is the mental fog, the adrenaline will go its course soon.

The medic is not surprised that both men are in the same bedroom. It seems no one who rushes in at Alexander’s screams seems surprised to find Washington in Hamilton’s sick bed.

Washington and Lafayette sop up the vomit with wet rags. They ignore their positions as men of wealth and title. They are needed tonight to be more than leaders. Alexander needs them tonight to be more.

Hamilton is given a sleeping tonic.

It only gives them an hour more of peace before the screaming starts again. Washington knows to shake him more severely this time. Alexander’s eyes fling open and he immediately begins gagging, even though his stomach has nothing more to give this night.

Washington meets Lafayette’s worried eyes in the doorway. 

“ _Petit lion_ ,” Lafayette approaches them slowly. He takes up Hamilton’s hands and gently rubs them. He almost kisses them but thinks better of it. He doesn’t know how Alexander will react to such a display of affection tonight.

“General.” Lafayette does not turn away from Hamilton, but directs his words elsewhere, “Please rest in my room. You are needed tomorrow and need rest. I will stay with _notre petit lion_ tonight.” 

Washington almost protests, but then remembers the dressing down he has already received from the Marquis today. He gives Alexander’s hair one last stroke before saying his good nights to the men.

Lafayette does not sleep. Each time he sees Hamilton so much as flinch in his sleep, he shakes his friend awake. It is a hard night for them both. He holds Hamilton through more than one crying fit. He does not know the nightmares, and he knows he cannot ask. All he can do is _be there_ for his dear friend.

That has to be enough for now.

\---

Hamilton goes back to work in the War Room the next day. He does not direct the aides to their tasks, leaving the newest ones flustered until Tench takes over.

Washington watches his lover warily. 

Hamilton is acting strange. It becomes immediately clear that he should _not_ be in the War Room today. He wanders, picking up papers and letting them fall back onto the desk, unread. He stares out the window. He bursts into tears mid-morning, requiring Lafayette, who has stayed nearby, to walk him around outside. He won’t explain what is wrong. They remind themselves that he likely doesn’t know what is wrong.

Washington attempts to give him an order, a simple one, a short letter to Philip Schuyler regarding leadership at West Point. Hamilton stares at him, uncomprehending, until Lafayette starts it for him. Then his hand shakes so badly that he has to stop halfway.

He can’t write for the whole of the day due to the tremors. He won’t speak. Lafayette guides him to a chair near the window and Tench hands him some letters to read. Old ones, from the day before. Unimportant ones. 

Which is the right course, as it is apparent that Alexander has not moved on from the first letter several hours later.

He doesn’t eat dinner, ignoring Lafayette’s pleas. 

The General eventually announces he will retire early for the night. However, he cannot find Alexander when he turns to leave. 

They hear a gunshot outside.

Washington sprints out the door in a panic, his long legs stretched to their full advantage to increase his speed. Hamilton is there, in the dark, shooting a pistol at the scarecrow out back. Washington does not know if it is safe to approach Hamilton in this state while he is armed. He waits until Hamilton goes to reload. 

Moving swiftly, he pulls the gun from Hamilton’s tight grip, “Alex, it’s time for bed.” He hands the pistol behind him to Lafayette. Washington then gently guides Hamilton back to the house.

Hamilton looks so confused. It breaks Washington’s heart.

Upstairs, Washington pulls off Hamilton's boots and coat. He lays his lover into the bed with care, instinctively knowing that this night will not be an easy one.

\---

He is right.

\---

Hamilton has improved the second day after the execution. He writes letters with little difficulty, handing each to Tench, the unofficial chief-of-aides during Hamilton’s inability, before starting on a new one. He does translations flawlessly. He can follow orders without issue.

So long as they do not require speech, Hamilton can manage it.

He does not know why he no longer can form words. He used to treasure talking so. His voice is just...lost to him.

\---

The days go by slowly. The nights are torturous. Each new host needs to be appraised of the situation. Warned that there is an ill aide and no, the General will not just dismiss him. The official explanation is that Hamilton lost his voice in an autumn fever. It does not, however, explain the shrieks in the middle of the night.

Washington learns how to deftly tend to Hamilton’s night terrors. He does not turn Alexander out of his bed, as Lafayette gently suggested he consider since his sleeping becomes so poor. Lafayette and the aides can care for Hamilton. But Washington just _can’t._ His lover needs him now that his mind has grown dark. These night terrors are not a trial Alexander should face alone.

Washington knows enough that they are about André, likely to do with the execution. Maybe memories from Alexander’s captivity. Washington briefly wonders what torture Alexander could have experienced that he failed to mention.

\---

_André smirks at him from the bed. Alexander is in the windowsill, halfway through his book. He almost is irritated that André insists on lovemaking during the day. There is so much work that could be done! Especially as their hours seem endless._

_“Alexander.” Those lips treasure his name._

_He can’t help but answer the call._

\---

_I think I love you, Alexander._

_\---_

Hamilton sobs hard into the pillow after this memory-dream. André is so young, vibrant, passionate. That passion is in the dirt now, snuffed out forever. No, Hamilton can’t think of André’s body. Not _that_ body. Not in the cold ground. Not those warm arms.

He shrugs away from Washington’s caresses.

\---

Washington is at his wits’ end when Martha joins them in late October. He begs her to come to his aid. She healed Hamilton before, he prays she can do it again.

“Heal his mind of his memories? His feelings?” She whispers, “Never completely. George, what were you _thinking_?”

“How was I to know he would react thus?” 

Martha taps her foot in frustration. They are alone in Washington’s office, in a rare occasion that Washington let Alexander out of his sight. After the incident with the gun he doesn’t trust Alexander to be alone.

“I think I broke his heart.”

“He watched his lover die, George. It isn’t a simple thing to recover from.”

With Martha, alone, Washington can say his deepest fear, “Martha, I think I’ve lost him. I think he is gone from me even if he recovers.” It comes out in a small voice that causes him instant shame. 

Martha goes to him then and embraces him tightly, “My husband, I don’t think that’s possible. He needs time. He needs time to accept this tragedy and to heal.” She holds him even tighter. “You _both_ will need to take the time to heal.”

"Me?"

Martha raises her brows at him, stepping back, "George, your own heart needs to heal. That man hurt you both when he took Alexander away. You both will need to work through it one day. You'll need to listen to Alexander on this one day."

Washington learned long ago not to fight his wife's say on these subjects. He squeezes her tightly in his embrace.

\---

Martha sits with Alexander in the evenings. She does not try to make him talk, as the others have all tried, and he appreciates her for it. They read the books she brings with her, silently. It soothes Alexander’s troubled mind to remember her words of comfort from their journey. He does not need them repeated out loud to review their wisdom.

Should he be mourning André so intensely? The man abducted him, manipulated him, and tried to turn his coat. But there was everything in between that made all the difference with André. That wit and refinement. Their shared insatiable love of books and debate. Their ideals for a more equal government. Nights of careful caresses. Nights of violent passion. 

Their only real problem between them was the sides they fought on.

And André tried his best to change that. 

Hamilton wonders if André would have kept him as a lover if he had defected that day.

He thinks so.

\---

_Come with me!_

\---

They are in the midst of preparing for another winter encampment when Alexander is called away for a visitor. Hamilton, puzzled at who could be calling on him that was not already in the room, goes to the foyer. 

Aaron Burr smiles at him.

Burr looks healthy enough. It’s odd to see him out of uniform, being a civilian now after his release. Alexander is not usually an affectionate man with greetings, especially these days, but he lunges himself into Burr’s arms. There’s a comfort there that he knows he needs. 

“Let’s walk, Alexander.” Burr suggests and laces their hands together. He does not suggest that they may need Washington's permission for an impromptu break in the middle of the afternoon.

They are a good distance away from Headquarters when Burr stops to really look at Alexander. The bags under his eyes are heavy. His skin has a sick pallor. He is thinner than usual. His hair is slick with the oil that builds from days of night-sweats and terrors.

“You look terrible.” Burr says bluntly.

Alexander, for the first time in nearly a month, smiles. 

It’s a good opening.

“You’re grieving.” Burr starts to walk forward again, his arm pulling Alexander’s with him, “You can grieve. But you can’t let that grief consume you.”

Hamilton prepares to tune out yet another well-meant lecture on his emotional state.

“Not like my grief consumed me last winter.” 

Hamilton looks up at that.

Burr glances over at him, “Yes, Alexander, we thought you were _dead_. For months. I thought I would go mad with grief. I talked though. To you. All the time. People thought I was mad. I probably was.” He sighs deeply, as if remembering, “I almost bought you a gravestone.”

Alexander makes a sound of protest.

Burr sighs softly, “So, yes, Alexander, I know grief. As do your friends in there. They grieved _you_. Which doesn’t make your grief any less real or right. But they do have some idea of your sorrows. Feel sad, Alexander, remember him, however you want, work through this as you need. I don’t need details. You don’t need approval. But don't let yourself go mad with this. Come back to us.” He looks at Alexander’s questioning look, “Lafayette wrote to me. And Tilghman. And Tallmadge. And Martha Washington herself!” 

Burr grips his hand tighter and the air suddenly changes around them, “ _He_ needs you. Washington.” Then he turns to look at Hamilton full on once more. “I need you. We all need that cleverness and courage to get us through this war. But I think you need to come back for yourself too. And only you know what needs to be done for it.”

Alexander somehow does knows what he needs to do after listening to Burr. Without knowing quite how, he knows he _can_ do it.

\---

_“I think I love you, Alexander.” André’s voice is clear in the dark._

_“I don’t love you, John. I can’t. I love him.” Alexander turns his head. Even if he can’t see André in the darkness, he knows he is still there._

_“I know.”_

_“I miss you.”_

_“I know.”_

_“Goodbye, John.”_

_He thinks he sees André bow one last time._

\---

Alexander wakes up slowly with the morning light. He sees Washington sleeping soundly on the pillow beside him. Hesitantly, Hamilton leans over and kisses the smooth forehead. Washington opens his blurry eyes at that, uncomprehending.

“Sir?” Hamilton's voice is uncertain, testing the waters of its potential after weeks out of practice.

Washington smiles, “ _Alexander_.” He says his lover’s name like it is a treasure.


	22. If You Gave Me a Command...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is meant to be more lighthearted because my gawd those last ones were depressing.

Alexander reenters the world with heightened awareness, after living in a fog for so long. With some hesitation, but sudden need, he takes the time to kiss his lover properly for the first time in weeks. Washington responds with the most gentle restraint.

“Have you returned to me?” He whispers hoarsely in disbelief.

Alexander feels confident in this answer, at least, “Yes. I am yours.” If it’s the only truth he knows absolutely, he knows himself to the most fortunate man alive. Now that the fog is lifted, he can feel his good fortune, the beating of his own heart, and that love showering over him in waves.

Washington now chances a gentle touch to Alexander’s face, a palm along his cheek.

“I am so sorry. It was my doing. It was cruel to have you...to let you...” His voice is still so soft and delicate that Hamilton wonders that it can come from such an imposing man.

Alexander moves closer then, enfolding that larger body in the circle of his arms. It’s obvious what Washington is saying, even if the General cannot find the words.

He shakes his head and puts a finger to his lover’s lips, “No, do not say so. I chose to watch. I needed to see him one last time. We didn’t know...” His voice still feels weak from disuse. He forges his way through the necessary words. Washington needs to hear them just as much as Hamilton needs to say them.

Washington closes his eyes, “I did not know you loved him so.” It’s the fear he did not want to make known. He does not want Hamilton to validate it. It is also the one that needs saying, that needs to be answers.

But Hamilton shakes his head again, “I cared for him, admired him. I _love_ only you, as my lover and my own.” He presses another warm kiss on Washington’s lips, which respond with equal warmth.

“Will you be alright?” Washington knows it is a selfish question, especially as it is only moments after his Alexander has emerged.

Alexander is honest with him. “I believe so. The worst has passed, I think. I may grieve him still. But the worst has passed.” He is thoughtful on this. Yes, he will be alright even if he can’t be the same.

His heart still aches when he thinks of André’s life cut short. He will not allow his own to end so tragically. André died a traitor’s death. But his ideals and his heart were sound, Hamilton knows this. Hamilton needs to go on for him. For their dreams.

He has so much work to do.

\---

Hamilton goes down to his morning duties with a secret smile. He enjoys being truly alive once more. The weak morning sun is brighter. The smell of ink is intoxicating. That day he and the General move in a comfortable dance of understanding.

“The Trumbull letter?” Washington holds out his left hand while his right hand holds the map he is studying. Hamilton hands it to him, also not looking up from the letter he currently pens. Washington barely glances at it. “Too long.” He criticizes. 

Hamilton again does not look up, “Important man.” He says matter-of-fact. It sends the workroom to a screeching halt. A few aides gasp at those two simple words. Harrison chokes audibly on his own spit. Hamilton has been mute for weeks now. They were given no warning that it had ended. 

“Important men deserve brevity.” Washington signs it anyway, refusing to acknowledge the novelty of Hamilton’s sweet voice in their busy work room again.

“Important men enjoy long letters from more important men, like you, sir.” 

A cheeky smile.

“Hamilton, don’t waste ink.”

The rest of the staff watch the scene with delighted amusement.

Tench rolls his eyes at them. He walks over to a clutter of aides, who are whispering that the General is a man never phased, even by Hamilton’s miraculous recovery. They are new enough that they have not seen the General’s legendary ire. 

“You fools, _he already knew_.” Tench rolls his eyes and orders them back to their work. 

\---

In the night they partake in a simpler, and equally understanding, dance. Hamilton whispers his darkest fears in Washington’s ear. Washington returns them with a few of his own secrets. Neither pretends to be any stronger then they are.

They don’t _fuck_.

Their lovemaking is far more intimate than that.

\---

_Winter 1780_

_Morristown, New Jersey_

A sort of routine, if constant messages of death and devastation can be considered routine, settles on their Headquarters once more.

Hamilton’s irritation grows. 

It doesn’t make sense, this sheer frustration with his daily tasks as an aide-de-camp. Especially since he has spent the better part of a year away from his desk due to captivity in New York, exile at Mount Vernon, and then, for a short time, held back by his own grief. His absence seems to make one truth clear to him: Washington doesn’t require him by his side.

Well, Washington does not need him working on his staff. The cogs still turned when Hamilton was not there. The Revolution won’t self-destruct because Alexander Hamilton's is not the hand holding the pen.

There is somewhere more important a man as brave, clever, and loyal as Hamilton can be.

Yet it seems he is now in an almost worse position than last November, when he last requested a command. Not only is he now Washington’s acknowledged lover (at least among the inner ring of the military staff), he now has a solid month of evidence of some sort of mental softness. He knows that, while he certainly has not moved past the grief he feels, it won’t debilitate him again.

He is very candid with Washington about his grief. He makes it clear that the affair was a moment in his life. It will not happen again. The grief was a moment in his life. It will not happen again. It. will. not. happen. again.

Washington smiles, reassures him, kisses him. And does not promote him.

\---

“You can’t be serious!” Aaron Burr cackles from his seat on Hamilton’s (officially Washington’s) bed. It’s after dinner and Hamilton has begged Burr to listen to his newest strategy on how to convince Washington to give him _one_ battalion. Only one!

Hamilton pouts, “I deserve a command.” He is insistent on this. His loyalty to Washington cannot be doubted now that André is gone. Now that it is Benedict Arnold who is the known traitor.

“You deserve a break.” Burr points out. He has remained in the weeks since Alexander’s recovery, taking a short leave from his studies. With hesitation, he accepted Washington’s grateful thanks and offer for reenlistment on a more limited basis. He is receiving his orders for his station in Connecticut, which will be essentially a recruitment mission. He will leave on the morrow, making it crucial that Alexander speaks with him tonight.

“We are in a war, Burr.” As if Burr did not know. “I just have a very long _break_ in the care of our dear enemy.” His stomach lurges at this, but he continues. “I have not been to battle in over two years! Even Washington leads the occasional skirmish.” He flops down next to Burr on the bed.

Burr feels his heart flutter. 

“Washington was not captured, Alexander. Washington has not just come out of a very real, very frightening ordeal of the mind.”

“So that will truly stop me? Tell me, Burr, tell me if I cannot lead due to a momentary...illness. Tell me that the men would not follow me.”

But Burr can’t find it in his heart to tell Alexander that lie. The truth is that, outside of the small military family, nobody knows that Hamilton has even been ill. Quite the opposite: after the story of Alexander’s now legendary “escape,” he is seen on some side of illustrious. The rumor has begun that Hamilton provided the intelligence that caught out Benedict Arnold’s treachery (the spy ring is unknown outside of a select few on the staff). Then the old stories of Kip’s Bay and Princeton, along with copies of his patriotic writings, come up around the campfire and, well…

Alexander Hamilton is a model of American ideals. 

In America you can be a new man. You can be a man like _Alexander Hamilton_.

Burr shakes his head, “No. Men would follow you.” He answers truthfully, “But it’s the General who gives you the command. Or keeps it away.”

“Therein lies the root of it! I’ve asked for years, Burr! I can understand caution...but it’s insulting. Lee was made _second in command_ upon his release from months of British captivity, remember?”

“He is really your example?”

Alexander rolls his eyes, “I am proven far more loyal than that. I’m only asking for a battalion. Hell, I would be fine with a scouting mission at this point. I’m sick of letters and dispatches and journals and argh!” He rolls himself over to pound his fists into the bed.

Burr silently muses that this action makes Alexander look childish despite his asking to lead men into certain death.

And then Burr's traitorous mouth decides to torture him.

“Alexander, you have the greatest advantage of any soldier in the army. You are preparing for a formal audience with your _lover_. Strip to your socks and _demand it_.”

Aaron Burr might be a masochist. He can imagine Alexander doing just that. _Demanding it._ It does not help that Alexander is laying _right next to him._

Hamilton blushes, “Sir!” He is very shy suddenly, “That’s not how we work…”

Burr laughs again, “That’s not how you work _now_.” He is on a roll now. “We both know just how _persuasive_ you can be, Alexander.” 

Images come unbidden. Alexander undressing. Alexander laying naked over a clothed General. Alexander on his knees, taking Washington’s-

Burr coughs and shakes the filth from his mind.

Unfortunately the second subject of his imagination chooses to enter the room at that moment.

Washington stops in his tracks when he sees Aaron Burr in his room, which is usually a private place. But he then sees Alexander and can manage to connect the dots. Colonel Burr has been a savior to Hamilton these weeks. It was with Burr’s gentle familiarity with Hamilton’s mind that Hamilton came back to them.

“Sir!” Burr immediately jumps to attention.

Alexander does not pull his face from the coverlet, “Sir.” He says more limply, muffled.

 _You could start by showing some proper respect to the General, Alexander_ , Burr thinks.

Then he thinks that Alexander shows the General more than just _respect_.

_Damnit, Burr! Stop!_

The General is nonplussed by Hamilton’s insubordination, seems more than a little amused. Burr can sense the change in the room and takes his leave, glancing back at Alexander’s prostrate form with some affection and exasperation.

Washington strokes Hamilton’s hair and earns a small noise of contentment from his lover. 

He has watched Hamilton closely as the days turn to weeks turn to a month. He sleeps easier, unafraid that it will be Hamilton’s shrieks that wake him in the night. He did not believe it would be possible for them to come together after coming apart so many times. But they are together. They stay together.

“Alex.”

“Sir?” Again, muffled.

“I came looking for you.”

“ _Obviously_.”

“Don’t be smart, boy, I’m still your commander.” Washington reprimands him but the words have no teeth.

Hamilton smiles, his playfulness overcoming his desperation, “ _Are_ you?” He rolls to sit up and bats his eyes, in a way he knows will cause Washington to catch his breath.

It works.

“You’ll be the death of me.”

“Oh, I certainly hope so, _sir_. It seems unfair that anyone else should be responsible.”

“Watch yourself.” But Washington is still smiling. 

“What did you need, sir?” Alexander settles himself, cross legged, in the middle of the bed. 

Washington , uncharacteristically, flops himself next to Hamilton. He finds an incredible calm when he is alone with Alexander. The stoicism and class that he spent decades perfecting fade away into a careless abandon. Alexander makes him young, makes him feel alive. When he looks up at the boy staring back down at him, it all makes sense. 

But he will never understand his Alexander.

"So, I reviewed my schedule with Harrison for tomorrow morning." Washington feels Alexander's hands, which had been rubbing gently into his skull, still abruptly.

The hands resume their movement. "Oh?" Hamilton feigns an innocence that Washington knows is feigned.

Washington hums, reluctant to cause a stop to the impromptu massage. "I have a meeting with _you_ tomorrow." He feels those hands fall away.

Damn.

"Alex, _w_ _hy_ do I have a private meeting scheduled with you tomorrow?" Washington opens his eyes again. Hamilton refuses to meet them directly.

"I thought...I had a request and..." Hamilton wonders if now is the time to take Aaron Burr's advice.

Washington is staring at him expectantly, "Yes?"

"Sir, entrust me with a command."

"No." He dismisses the thought out of hand.

"Men will follow me."

"I am sure they will follow wherever I send them."

Hamilton makes a choked noise of offense, though he knows Washington does not mean it thus.

"Alexander." Washington sits up, weary already of this conversation, "Can we not enjoy this time together? You are healthy and you are safe and we are together _here_."

Hamilton glares, "I did not join the army for a love affair. If I were any other-"

"If you were any other you would not be here with me." Washington stands then. Hamilton feels the urge to pull him back down. 

"In your bed."

Washington huffs, "Why must you be a constant source of dramatics in the middle of a _war_?" It's a very valid question, Washington thinks.

Alexander disagrees.

"Oh, I apologize for being very nearly executed by my fellow soldiers, captured by an enemy to turn my coat - which I did _not_ \- and then hope that my loyalty is rewarded with a command." There is an unspoken _and had a mental breakdown when you had me watch a former lover executed_ in there that goes unacknowledged.

"A command is a responsibility, not just a reward." 

"I can handle it."

Washington puts a hand to his temples, "Alex, please. I beg you. Give me peace."

Hamilton pouts. 

Washington gives him a withering look that would bring a lesser man to cower.

Alexander only sighs prettily and crosses his arms.

"I worry about you. You have so much...passion that I fear for you."

"You think I'm too insane to lead an army." Hamilton accuses, unfairly.

"You are well, I know that. I don't want to burden you."

"It is literally my job to be burdened by you, _sir_. You're my commander."

"And I'm saying, _as your commander,_ that I need you here."

"You are trying to protect me by keeping me under a pile of papers and frivolous tasks and..."

Washington considers leaving the room. He decides against it. Alexander is getting worked up now. Washington was honest about his lover's passion. It can be Alexander's greatest asset but also his ruin. Alexander has grown even bolder in his interactions with Washington, in direct correlation to the growth of their relationship.

"...you don't seem to trust me despite my proven loyalty to you! Or is that I have too little pedigree? Should I cut my losses and return to my studies in New York, as Burr did?"

"No!" Washington snaps at that. "I trust you, I admire you, but I _need_ you."

"You've done fine without me this year."

"Life goes on, but _I'm_ gone without you." 

_"MY_ life does not go on. I just stay in this endless pattern. I am stagnant!" Hamilton wants to scream in frustration but does not. They are beginning their circles of arguments that will leave them spinning until they can't see straight.

Washington throws his hands in the air before deciding that an early evening with Hamilton is not quite the pleasure he sought when he first crossed the threshold. He leaves the room then. Hamilton mimics his lover's gesture before following him back downstairs to the War Room.

They work in silence.

\---

Hamilton does try Burr's idea _once_. It goes as well as he thought it would. He doesn't even finish his sentence before the General has stormed out of the room.

"You abuse me, sir!" Washington shouts as he leaves.

Hamilton's whole - _naked_ \- body goes red with his embarrassment.

\---

Hamilton attempts to embarrass Washington in front of the staff by asking during a morning briefing. He only succeeds in setting Washington into a bad mood which sets the remainder of the staff against him for the remainder of the day. They are given leave by the General to retire early, leaving Hamilton with the bulk of the remaining work.

\---

Martha attempts to intercede on Hamilton's behalf. When she emerges from Washington's office, she only gives Hamilton a little sigh and wraps a homespun scarf around his neck.

\---

Even Lafayette speaks for him, begging the General to have mercy the poor Marquis, who must listen to the whining of _notre petit lion_ on a near daily basis and it is giving him so many headaches.

Hamilton glares at Lafayette when he emerges, having listened at the door like a spy.

Lafayette shrugs sheepishly.

\---

The more Washington refuses, the more Hamilton misses André's vocal support of his advancement. Even if it was for him to turn coat and was entirely based in manipulation and deceit, it was more encouraging than Washington's absolute refusal of any promotion or sight of battle.

"Then send me out under the service of another!" Hamilton, desperate, begs. "Let me fight at least!"

Washington looks as though he might spit fire. He grabs Hamilton's coat and lifts him off the floor in his anger, even gives a little shake. 

"I can't lose you!" He nearly snarls in his anger, "I just got you back and I need you! If I were to risk you on the field, I would be more the fool not to give you a commandant which would at least keep you out of harms way!" He drops Hamilton back down unkindly.

Alexander is only a little stunned at Washington's reaction. In truth, he is also more than a little interested in Washington's show of strength. Washington has been too gentle with him since his _illness_ in October. Alexander has made it a sort of mission these weeks to goad out that temper.

They make awkward bedfellows after Hamilton attempted to use their intimacy to ask after a command. Pulses quicken and hands caress every other eve or so. But then Hamilton always makes some comment and Washington bans him to the aides room for the night (who look at their friend in amusement and also some despair that the General will be especially grumpy the next morning). Washington comes up with a new rule that they may not discuss any war business in bed. It is poorly enforced and rarely followed.

One misplaced apple can topple an overfilled wagon.

\---

_February 16 1781_

_New Windsor, New York_

They pass each other on the stairs. Washington asks that Hamilton wait upon him, _immediately_. Hamilton misses the inflection, agrees vaguely that he will be there straight away, and delivers a commissary letter to Tench (who continues to lead the aides with barely hidden disdain). As Hamilton returns to Washington, Lafayette stops him briefly on some matter of business. Hamilton finds a way to disengage himself from Lafayette, promising to look into it more when he returns from the General.

Washington meets him on the stairs.

"Colonel Hamilton, you have kept me waiting at the head of the stairs these ten minutes. I must tell you, sir, you treat me with disrespect." 

Hamilton's own temper flares.

"I am not conscious of it, sir, but since you have thought it necessary to tell me so, we part." He gives an overly dramatic bow. 

Washington looks down on his lover from his position at the top step, "Very well, sir, if it be your choice." He slams his office door behind him as he storms away.

Hamilton stomps out of Headquarters with equal passion.

Tench groans and mentally prepares himself for the disaster ahead.

\---

Washington rubs his temples, a habit he has picked up these days whenever Hamilton gives him that look of defiance. It is later that same day. Tench has already tried to make peace between them, himself attending to Alexander's wounded ego and Lafayette taking on the more prickly General. Washington sends an lengthy apology by way of Tench. Alexander returns the horse he somehow already managed to acquire. The stable guard is reprimanded for falling for Alexander's charms (" _But ain't he the General's man?!_ ").

"What's this?" Washington takes the parchment Hamilton has presented to him with a bow.

When Alexander is being especially respectful he is at his most dangerous. Especially after the scene that morning.

Washington reads the letter. Looks up at Alexander. Reads the letter. Again at Alexander.

" _You're resigning_?"

Hamilton bows again, "Sir, I feel we have come to an impasse. My services are no longer offered for my assigned position. If you wish me to remain your _man_ here, it will need to be without this guise you have taken advantage of." 

Tench, who had just delivered a correspondence and still stood near the General's desk, swears obscenely once he reads Hamilton's writing. He mumbles a heated apology before taking his leave of them both. He is quite done playing peace-maker for this dysfunctional couple.

"You're leaving me." Washington's heart already feels the storm clouds threatening to cover it.

Hamilton must feel that desperation.

"No, no! I'm asking to be released from my services if they do not include a command. I am not asking to be released as your lover. You know I cannot be released from my love for you! This is an issue between commander and soldier." He is generous at least in these words. But he refuses to retract his resignation. Washington could refuse the resignation, but he knows Hamilton will only present it again. Publicly.

"Alex?"

"Yes, sir?

" _Take a break._ "

\---

_March 1781_

_Haverstraw, New York_

Aaron Burr reviews the case in front of him, enjoying his third cup of coffee that morning as the snow drifts lazily out his window. These months as part-time soldier, part-time student, and part-time apprentice to Thomas Smith, have been exactly what his mental health needs. He has struck up a riveting correspondence with a Miss Theodosia Prevost, an enchanting woman who had housed the military staff shortly after Monmouth. Her home, the Hermitage, is still a gathering place for American soldiers and patriots. Burr plans to visit and take her up on her thinly veiled offers of romance soon.

There is a knock at the door. Burr, who is not a social man, almost does not answer it. It can only be a solicitor or his landlord, whom he has paid just yesterday. 

The knocking continues. 

Burr's curiosity and manners get the best of him. He opens the door a crack to see his visitor. On his doorstep, unabashed and grinning, knapsack on his back, without invitation or warning is...

Alexander Hamilton.

Burr shuts the door again.


	23. Mr. Burr, Sir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton and Burr are roommates. It goes as well as expected.

Burr takes a deep drink of his ale. Alexander chatters on about everything and nothing at all. It’s nervous chatter and he keeps glancing up at Burr over his own tankard. Burr, for his part, sits in grumpy silence.

Alexander hiccups and his chatter fades off. He plays with a frayed splinter on the wooden table. Dark eyes cast themselves at the floor, examining his own mud stained boots.

“You’re mad at me.” He pouts prettily. His eyes meet Burr's in accusation.

Burr catches his breath at those dark eyes. After a moment, he gives a long and hard sigh. “No, Alexander, I am not mad at you. I’m never mad at you. You meant no harm to me.” Which is true, Burr thinks. Alexander Hamilton waltzes his way through life, complicates the dance without warning, and is always surprised when he steps on others’ toes. But he is never malicious in his impositions.

“I didn’t.” Hamilton agrees, “If I had known you did not want my company I would have sought out another’s-”

“No! Alexander, for Heaven’s sake and for the dozenth time this day: you can stay! It’s only that, with no warning and my work and my lodgings, it will hardly be the jovial respite you seek!” Burr snorts at that. He will likely fall behind in his diligent studies again. It has been a matter of months since he left the winter encampment and already Hamilton is again as thunder is to lightning. Always following with loud disturbance to his life.

“But you missed me, right?” Again, the pout that softens Burr’s better senses. 

“No.” Burr answers gruffly.

Alexander’s face crumples.

“I’m teasing you.”

“Oh! Ha! Yes. Well I can help you with your studies, to be sure. And the General will soon give me a command and I will be back with him posthaste.”

Burr makes a noncommittal noise and takes another deep drink.

\---

Alexander’s lithe frame presses into Burr’s back as he snores lightly in his sleep. Burr lays awake, unable to disconnect his brain from playing disturbing memories of past evenings spent laying flush against Hamilton. 

Alexander should not be in his bed. 

Burr told him as much before they doused the lights. But Hamilton refuses to bunk on the floor when he sees sufficient space next to his companion on the bed. Burr refuses to sleep on the floor given it is his own money paying the rent on this overpriced, too small room. 

Alexander muses that they both are soldiers and cramped sleeping accommodations are nothing new to them.

Burr grumpily responds that Hamilton’s most recent bedmate, _the General_ , likely would disapprove of this arrangement. At Hamilton’s stricken expression, he relents and so here they are.

Burr knows the torch he bears will scorch him eventually. The burns he already suffers are insurmountable. Yet, no matter how Burr tries to douse the light, Alexander makes it burn hotter.

Thoughts of a love affair with Theodosia, no matter how tempting and _available_ , have flitted away in an instant.

And he knows Alexander does not love him. Can’t love him. That fickle heart has gone on to attract a greater, brighter torch to keep it warm.

Hamilton may not see it himself, but aligning himself intimately with the General will only help his career after the war. It is entirely unnecessary to advocate for a promotion for this reason alone. On the same hand, Alexander is not high enough in rank to merit execution if the Revolution fails. And his skills would make him entirely desirable for even British employ in government or military. Hell, they’ve already tried to turn his coat in an elaborate plot in this war!

Burr knows Alexander does not think this way. Alexander does not entertain the thought of failure or taking the easy way out. He is a creature of the Revolution. Hamilton doesn't hesitate; he exhibits no restraint. He simply takes, and takes, and takes. And he keeps winning anyway.

Burr, despite himself, snuggles himself closer to the warm body behind him.

\---

_May 1781_

Alexander writes to the General daily, having taken over Burr’s small writing desk as his own. He receives one response per ten letters, on average. It takes a lot to remind himself that the General is still actively fighting and likely more busy without Hamilton to shoulder the load.

“Let me guess, another refusal?” Burr intones from his chair in the corner.

Hamilton nearly rips apart the letter in his hands. He instead places it on top of the slowing growing pile of rejections. Washington, though he does not express it so explicitly, reminds Hamilton of his heart’s desire and urges him to return. Without the promise of advancement, however, Hamilton won’t obey.

Stubborn fool.

Burr grins down at his own correspondences with Laurens (who has found it in his heart to forgive if not forget their last fight). Burr has expressed his desire that Laurens, whose intelligence and abilities are never in question, will join him after the war in a law practice. To his utter surprise, Laurens has agreed! Something about focusing the practice on the inalienable rights of enslaved persons in America. Burr ignores that bit. The practice will be whatever they _both_ make it.

Burr’s spirits are lifted these days, with a future near guaranteed with Laurens and Hamilton at his side now. The depression that so clouded his mind this past year is only a nagging linger in the back of his mind.

“I have the ability.” Hamilton huffs.

“Yes.”

“I have the brains.” 

“Of course.”

“And the courage.”

“Without measure.”

“With loyalty unmatched.”

“Indeed.”

“Are you even listening to me, Burr?”

“I agree.”

“Burr!”

“What? Oh, yes, yes, you are the absolute ideal candidate for advancement. But I’m not the one you need to convince.”

Alexander sighs and glances up at his friend. Burr looks well these days, younger somehow. It has buoyed Alexander’s own healing heart to see him so at peace. It reminds him of another, more distant time together. When everything was so much more clear and advancement was more achievable.

“I could _persuade you_ , lord knows.” Hamilton lets some coyness into his voice. He likes to tease Burr. They get on well. Usually.

But Burr is immediately on guard. He remembers a not-too-long-ago conversation in Washington’s bedroom. _Persuade him_. It stirs his insides up uncomfortably.

“I am going for a walk. This room is too stuffy.” Burr leaves suddenly, forgetting in his haste to grab a hat to cover his shaven head. 

Hamilton shrugs. If Burr wants to get sunburned ears, Alexander won’t be the one to mother him.

Instead, he picks up a pen to write another scathing political essay for the press.

\---

Burr ruminates while he sludges his way through the streets. His relationship with Alexander has become more precarious. Alexander has taken an obsessive interest in Burr’s studies, even quizzing him nightly on readings. It’s only Burr’s duty of confidentiality that keeps Alexander out of his apprenticeship with Smith. 

Then there is the bed sharing.

Burr is locked into a contract with the landlord. Hamilton has no coin to spare for his own lodgings (having received no pay for the last year or so, in an effort to provide for the troops). The small room might be able to fit another cot, but Hamilton scoffs at the thought of crowding the room with _unnecessary_ furniture.

("He'll give me my command just as the cot makes it up the stairs!")

It makes it worse that Burr cannot “put himself at ease” after a long night pressed against Alexander’s body. Their past - and present - familiarity seems to make it easy for Hamilton to disregard social boundaries. He even _massages_ Burr’s shoulders some nights! 

Damn him!

Burr does not put a stop to it though. His cock throbs angrily all night and in the morning he is frustrated beyond all explanation. And, again, with Hamilton writing in the room early in the mornings ( _“It’s habit, Mr. Burr, sir.”_ Alexander explained, rolling his eyes.), Burr can’t quite _take care_ of his own problem. Then he is off to clerk for Attorney Smith. By afternoon, he is cranky and all but runs during his long walks to cool his head.

Burr needs to put a stop to this.

But Alexander is a breath of fresh air in his gloomy life of books and ambition. Hamilton is fire that is all consuming and soothing all at once. That cleverness keeps Burr on his toes. That attention balms his ego. That stubbornness makes him want to scream. 

If Burr does not finally put an end to these years of pining, disaster is sure to follow.

\---

Alexander, for his part, is beginning to question his choice to leave Washington's staff. He misses the busy work. Being aimless reminds him too much of last year, when he was in the care of...the British. It makes his mind wander to lazy days in bed. Lazy days spent chasing pleasure and books with the Revolution only as an afterthought. 

When Burr is away working at the firm, Alexander takes himself in hand and distracts himself with self-pleasure. Usually his imagined partner is Washington. He misses his lover and regrets his impulsive choice to leave him. Alexander is lonely and he only has his own hand for comfort.

Sometimes his hand turns into André's, which leaves Hamilton a sticky, crying mess again. He is then depressed for the rest of the evening, which then sets Burr into an anxious frenzy to cheer him.

Other times, with increasing frequency, it's Burr who is conjured up in his mind.

It feels like infidelity all over again. But if Hamilton does not act on it, he surely is not being unfaithful to his Washington. A man is entitled to his fantasies, so long as they don't go further.Hamilton digs up old memories of frenzied couplings, the surprises of new sensations, his introduction into a new world of pleasure at Burr's hands (and other body parts, at times). 

It doesn't help that Burr's own attraction to him is so obvious (physically, at least). When Alexander reflects on these last few years, he can pick up on times Burr stared too long, or pried in his personal matters too much. Was Burr in love with him then? Hamilton shakes the thought away. No, Burr is too smart for that. Burr knows where Hamilton's heart lies.

No, self pleasure, like all of the most base human urges, is not indicative of one's heart. 

It does not stop Alexander's heart from pounding too long after a particularly passionate session remembering a time Burr after Kip's Bay, when Burr stared into his eyes like he would memorize a book. Hamilton's heart does a weird flip.

 _Maybe you can't hold a man like Alexander Hamilton_.

No, Washington could hold him. Washington _does_ hold him, his heart, his soul. Each letter is a reminder of his continued attentions and affections. Nearly begging Alexander to return to his staff. Hamilton is just letting his boredom and anxiety play tricks on his brain. Burr does not hold his heart. Burr means nothing to him.

If he does not put an end to these frivolous pinings, disaster is sure to follow.

\---

_June 1781_

Alexander is drunk. Very drunk. The stench of ale permeates in an aura around his person. He is sweaty and glassy eyed. His whole body sways with drunkenness. 

Burr catches him before he stumbles onto the floor. Alexander has rarely indulged in the months since arriving on Burr’s doorstep that winter. His clever mind stayed focused on his goal of convincing Washington to relent a command (and a secondary goal to distract Aaron Burr from his studies, it seems). 

“Gods, Alexander! Stand up man!” Burr grunts as he shifts Hamilton’s bulk to lean on himself. 

“Make. Me.” Hamilton responds, slurring his words in a strange, stilting way. 

“Hamilton. Stop.” Burr heaves his drunk friend onto the bed.

“Burrrr...Buuuuurrrr. Buh Buh Burrrr. Ruh Ruh Burrrr. Bruh bruh. Burr.” Alexander croons, progressively getting louder with each syllable. Burr wants to strangle him with a pillow.

“Alexander. Please. Shut up.” He settles for slapping Hamilton’s face until the crooning stops.

“Don’t hit me.” Alexander sounds sober for a moment, before bursting into giggles. 

Burr rolls his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. You’re drunk. You need to shut up.” He chastises. He pulls the blankets over Hamilton's curled up frame.

“I’m lonely.” Alexander whines.

“I’m right here.”

“Don’t leave meee. Everyone always leave meee.” Alexander is positively sobbing now. He grips a pillow and hides his face away. 

Burr sighs. He's angry that Hamilton chose a _Tuesday night_ to get outrageously drunk. Burr needs to be in court tomorrow morning.

“You always leave _others,_ Alexander. But Washington should have known not to let you go. You’re always looking for more. You always _need_ someone. You’re so _needy_.” He mutters this angrily.

Burr is more angry at Washington for allowing Hamilton to come to Burr, to put them back in this position

“I need you.” Hamilton is looking at him again. His eyes are dark pools of intoxicated desperation. Burr notices Hamilton spread himself out a little more on the bed. Hamilton licks his bottom lip.

 _He’s drunk_ , Burr reminds himself.

“No, you don’t. No one needs me.” Burr removes Hamilton’s boots as he mutters away. “You’re just drunk and horny. And you’re being a cocktease, as usual. Gods, Alexander! You’ll be your own ruin and you’ll bring me down with you.”

Hamilton pouts in that pretty way that makes Burr’s knees weak. “You wanted me first.” He accuses, even pointing a shaking finger at Burr. 

Burr rolls his eyes again. “That was years ago, Alexander. Go to sleep.” He turns to douse the candle.

But Hamilton shakes his head.

“No. Now. You look at me all the time. ALL THE TIME. And you want me. I can tell, you know.” His eyes flick up to Burr’s crotch. Burr covers himself, immediately self-conscious and embarrassed. “Yup, I see _that_. All the time.”

“You’re literally throwing yourself at me every day. What do you expect? And you’re spoken for besides. If I wanted Washington to beat me as bad as I hear he did that British Bastard then, sure, I’d fuck you right now. And you’d probably take it.” Burr is too furious bite back his retort. It's crass and unworthy of him.

But he wants to hurt Hamilton now that he is shamed himself. He should stop. He has to stop.

Hamilton doesn't stop.

“You wanted me before then too. In camp. After Laurens left. You were so desperate and you. couldn’t. have. me. _Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am!_ ” Hamilton bursts into giggles again. His taunts are sang in an annoying sing-song way that only makes Burr’s blood boil more.

“Quote poetry all you want, Hamilton.” Burr snarls. “You’re still a cocktease and a whore.”

Hamilton sobers again at that. “I’m not a whore.” He pulls himself, with great effort, to a seated position. “Just because you’re like _in love_ with me-”

“Not everyone is in love with you!” Burr interrupts with a shout. He is making his way to the door now. Let Alexander choke on his own vomit. Burr is done mothering and protecting and comforting Hamilton’s over-large, pompous, buffoonish ego.

“But _you_ are!” Hamilton shouts in return.

Burr looks back once more, in disgust. He can't tell Hamilton that he _does not love him_. He still cannot not lie to Alexander, even in this state of intoxication.

He slams the door as he leaves.


	24. Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter because brevity is sometimes the finest art...or whatever. 
> 
> Anyway Battle of Yorktown is up next so look at for CHAPTER 25 (woo!) within the next week.

Burr does not come back the next day.

Or the day after that.

Alexander even visits the law firm. Smith confirms that Burr has taken a short leave to “attend to some personal business.” Whatever that means. Hamilton thanks the man and returns to Burr’s little rented room in worse circumstances than before.

Alexander has messed up royally this time. He remembers the night clear enough, despite his intoxication. He was cruel. Vicious even. Pricking Burr where it would hurt, shaming and mocking him. And for what, his rejection?

Burr was cruel as well. _Whore_. Humph! Burr knows Alexander is devoted to the General! Burr knows nothing of Alexander’s affair with André to judge him at that. Burr obviously knows nothing of Alexander’s heart. But Burr knows that is the insult that would hurt Alexander the worst. 

Alexander fears it might be true. 

_You can’t hold a man like Alexander Hamilton_.

Alexander offered himself to Burr last night. His ale addled brain did not even hesitate. Sober, Alexander can be faithful but drunk...no, no that’s not quite true either, is it? Hamilton made many _sober_ decisions to bed André, whether Burr knows of that or not. Hamilton made the _sober_ decision to flirt with Burr these months. Even if it was playful banter, Hamilton is no fool that he does not realize he has been toying with Burr’s heartstrings.

Hamilton has been gifted the world on a string: Washington, the Commander of the Continental Army, respects him and begs for his service; papers publish his essays and beg for more; his future is secure by a dozen or more benefactors and friends, all of whom beg him to take up their offers. 

And he wants more.

He can be true to his lover. He knows he can be. It’s the stress and the boredom. Alexander just needs to get away from Burr, who is an unhealthy constant in his life. Yes, Burr is just _always there_. Alexander looks back and, in nearly every significant stage of his life, Burr is there. 

A friend encouraging him to temper the political fire in his speeches at King's college.

_(You keep out of trouble and you double your choices!)_

A soldier encouraging him to settle for his military position.

( _You still want to fight? Not right.)_

A lover encouraging him to stamp out the romantic feelings in his heart 

( _Don’t ruin a good thing.)_

An ex-lover encouraging him to abandon his love affair with the General.

( _Alexander, please, you know how reckless this is._ )

Alexander still does not feel that Burr is malicious though, despite all the evidence that he is endlessly trying to hold Alexander back from his potential. Burr held Alexander when he trembled after killing his first Redcoat. Comforted and healed him after that disaster of a first night with Washington. Brought him back from madness after André’s death. And countless other times of comfort and advice.

Alexander just wishes Burr would come _home_.

\---

Burr stays away for a week. When he returns, he does not speak to Hamilton. Burr goes about the room, packing a bag with some personal items. Hamilton tries a dozen times to break that silence. Courage fails him. 

Burr leaves again without a word.

He returns later that evening. Drunk. The hairs prickle up on Hamilton’s neck warning him of danger. It’s fair game, however: if Burr wants to shout at Hamilton then it is more than deserved.

But, instead, Burr lies down on the bed, turns toward the wall, and remains silent.

Hamilton sleeps on the floor that night.

\---

Burr drinks. A lot. Every day that next week. He does not go back to the firm. He reeks of ale and tobacco and whores. (Hamilton can recognize cheap perfume as well as the next man.) Burr spends that week whoring and drinking and smoking himself into oblivion. He does not speak to Hamilton. He does not seem to hear Hamilton. 

Until the next week, when the fighting starts.

Years of sexual frustration, annoyances, and grievances come out in a multi-day fury of insults and screaming matches.

Hamilton, ever temperamental and defensive, reacts just as vehemently.

In one memorable fight, Burr insults Hamilton’s impoverished background, calls him a “creole bastard.” Hamilton responds that Burr is a “trust fund baby” who is incapable of looking past promotions and thruppence whores. Burr shouts back that Hamilton should watch whom he calls “whores,” given his own reputation.

Hamilton punches Burr in the jaw. 

Burr reels back and gives a full bellied laugh. Then he calls Hamilton a son of a whore who learned his talents at the tit. 

Another punch leaves Burr with a split lip.

More laughter.

Hamilton begins to worry that Burr might not be entirely sane. He is at least gone enough with drink that Hamilton stops the fight abruptly and curls onto his nest of blankets on the floor. Burr soon snores from the bed and does not seem to remember where the blood on his face came from the next day.

\---

_July 1781_

The first week of July brings out the worst of them both. Washington’s letters have become even more infrequent. Lafayette’s too. Laurens penned a particularly concerned letter on Burr that Hamilton can’t bring himself to respond to. No letters to write. No one else to talk to.

It feels like he and Burr are stuck in a private Hell where they are both sinner and demon. Burr is drunk to sickness. Hamilton’s nightmares have returned, a mixture of gallows and bloody papers, assassins and spies.

The landlord gently asks that they leave the room within the month.

“I only wanted to protect you.” Burr slurs from the bed one night.

Hamilton glances up from his seat on the floor.

“What?”

“I _said_ I only wanted to protect you.” Burr repeats, annoyed. “You are just so _helpless_ sometimes. Innocent and rash and so _stupid_. You just run your mouth off and you’ll wind up dead someday. And it’ll be my _fault_ because I need to _protect you_.”

Hamilton draws small circles on his kneecap, wishing Burr would shout at him again. It’s uncomfortable to know that, of all the cruel insults that came from places of hate, this quiet, drunken confession hurts Hamilton’s heart the most.

“You don’t need to protect me, Burr.” Hamilton whispers, closing his eyes as a tear makes its way past his lids.

Burr snorts, “Yes, I do. Everyone thinks you are this perfect being and you’re not.” He throws an arm over his eyes, “I mean, you’re so _you_.”

Hamilton laughs softly, “Thanks.” He wipes his face dry.

“I mean, _you_ are still _you_. _You_ are wonderful and clever and so, so _stupid_.” 

Hamilton pushes himself up from the floor and pulls a blanket over Burr’s frame. 

“You should sleep.”

“Will you join me? Just to sleep?”

Hamilton considers the dangers of this for a moment, given the last volatile two weeks. He sets his concerns aside as he crawls into bed next to Burr. He falls into an uneasy, dreamless sleep.

\---

They wake together, Burr’s arms around Hamilton. Burr kisses the back of Hamilton’s head and breathes in his scent. Hamilton lifts a hand to hold onto the arm looped over his chest.

It feels like the quiet after a storm. The damage has been done and they must learn to fix it, live with it, or move away from it all. 

“I love you.” Burr whispers.

“I know.”

“You don’t love me.”

“I do. Just not the same.”

Burr chokes on a sob, “You loved me once? Right? At the start of the war?” His voice sounds as if it is stretched thin. The words don’t want to come out, or there is not room in this quiet morning for them to be said. But they spill out anyway.

“I’ve always loved you. I’ll always love you.”

“But not the same.”

“No. Once I thought I was _in love_ but then…”

“Him.”

“Yes.”

“You won’t consider me.”

“Please don’t ask me to.”

“How can I stop loving you? _How_?” Burr’s tears flow freely now, as he grips Hamilton tightly from behind. Hamilton doesn’t have an answer, so he doesn’t give one. 

Burr shakes with his crying. Hamilton’s neck is wet with Burr’s tears. Alexander realizes that, in all these years since they met, he has never seen Aaron Burr cry. Burr is the strong one, the protector. But Alexander knows he isn’t broken. A thing as frivolous as a heartbreak can’t break Aaron Burr.

\---

Washington's letter arrives later that day. A command of an infantry battalion in New York. Hamilton holds the letter against his heart.

Burr watches from the window, his eyes still red-rimmed after his tears ran dry and his binge drinking left him achingly sober. To say he is hungover is an understatement. It has been a long while since he saw battle but he is as weary as he has ever been.

Hamilton glances up at him and then looks uncertain. He almost offers to stay, to work out whatever is happening between them. Burr has not been well. Someone needs to look after him, if only to make sure he does not drink himself to death. 

But Burr smiles sadly and shakes his head. 

One day, many years from now, Hamilton will reflect on his decision to leave Burr in that little room. Burr will never exude the same warm protection as before, in neither their political nor personal relationships. Hamilton will pretend the distance between them was created from Burr's jealousy over Hamilton's military promotion, or some other perceived slight in their 30 some years of disagreements.

Burr will never hold Hamilton again.

Hamilton will never again go to Burr for advice or comfort.

When they face each other, one day, many years from now, they will only briefly remember a time when they were close enough to break each other's hearts, instead of merely wounding fickle prides.

Hamilton closes that door to run back to Washington and he is never again able to open it.


End file.
